King of Clubs
by DemiSpy
Summary: Danny breathes in, breathes out. Not going mad, just keep talking. Not going mad. "So… what now?" Clockwork grimaces. "Well, now you choose. You either refuse the crown and let the Ghost Zone crumble, or you accept it and take up Pariah's throne." My take on the Ghost King concept.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything Nickelodeon owns.

**Claimer: **This story is mine, though. I'm the one thinking it up and writing it down.

* * *

**Chapter One**  
Ghost King's Bruises

_2014.3—Ghost King_

_2013.1—Bruises_

* * *

Blue eyes squint against the summer sun, annoyed, like his tone: "You know, one of the things I like most about summer is _not _having to see Casper kids…"

"You're refusing an amusement park?" Tucker adjusts his glasses. "Inauguration day of one of the few interesting things little towns like Amity can offer?"

"Sounds more like a complaint. Refusing is too strong a word for such a whiner." A blue-eyed glare barely disturbs her. "Cheer up! Tucker and I know you need a break, and lazing around won't distract you the way adrenaline will. Positive, vomit-inducing, nerve-wracking, wind-stinging-your-eyes adrenaline."

She has a point but he won't admit it aloud. He wants to laze around, knows he deserves it, but that won't shove the stress out of his system the way a rollercoaster will. The past week has him exhausted, and he doesn't even have to worry about schoolwork these days. He's tired and weaker than he should be, there are bags under his eyes and his fingers are twitchy. He feels fourteen again, as if the accident was three weeks ago rather than years, confused and a little numb in the knees all the time. He phased through his bed when the blaring alarm shocked him awake a week ago, and he's recurred to belts again. He won't take any chances with his pants this time around.

It's all Vlad's fault, he knows it. And, going further back, it's probably his own fault, too. He has made enemies—he's been doing this for three years, it was bound to happen. He just never thought they'd team up and take turns to make his life hell.

"Isn't adrenaline supposed to be bad for you? If it's chronic or something?" He heard something like that in science a few weeks before classes ended; it's the one class he actually enjoys, so he usually manages to catch some things while struggling to stay awake.

Sam bites her lip. She does that a lot lately, he thinks. He finds it uncharacteristic and a tad distracting. "Yeah, but I'm not sure if it's any worse than all that stress gathered in front of a TV. And the end result here is better than the end result there."

The line in front of them is long—as long as it can get, considering it's a small town with a small population of young people interested in (or forced into) an adrenaline rush and junk food. The sun is burning down on them and his eyes just won't adjust. Sam doesn't look particularly comfortable in it either, but she's braving it to cheer him up.

He looks back to all the times she and Tucker have been brave for him; all the times they've stepped out of their comfort zones to face things at his side. They shouldn't have to…

There are fingers snapping before his eyes and the sound is as obnoxious as his alarm. "Snap out of it," she says. Her voice sounds better than the alarm.

"Dude," that's Tucker. He feels so unfocused. "Danny, look at me. You're blanking out on us again."

He inhales a little too sharply and turns his gaze to Tucker. "Sorry." He has said that word so many times lately that it's starting to sound like background music.

"Repeat after me," Tucker says. "I am Danny Fenton, a seventeen-year-old halfway through summer vacation."

He repeats. He knows exactly whom Tucker gets these tricks from, and he thinks maybe he should be upset, but he's not, because they work.

"I am at an amusement park with my best friends, and I will have fun."

Sam cuts in when he's about to repeat after Tucker—"Or else. I will have fun, _or else_."

She looks serious, but there's a smile in her eyes, a worried one.

He finishes repeating. Repeating after Tucker gives him something to think about—the concept of fun, the concept of best friends—and it pulls him out of his musings and dumps him in the sweaty, crowded, noisy reality he currently calls amusement park entrance line.

They're waiting for him to say something. He notices they look tired too, and he realizes that even if he keeps them off the battlefield as much as possible, they still stay up late and worry and panic the way he does. They worry more than he does.

He should make an effort to cheer them up, too. "Do you guys think it's a little creepy that Dash uses that letterman jacket out in the heat?"

Tucker laughs, perhaps too hard. There's relief in that laugh, and knowing it's for him makes his stomach clench.

Sam rolls her eyes. The change in topic is drastic but she's used to that. "_Please_. He has worn one every day since he received it in freshman year. Do you think his ghost, sometime in the far future, will wear it as well?"

"It'll probably be his obsession," Tucker says. "Jazz would love to study that. Recurring patterns of behavior equal either habit or obsession."

He mentions his sister so casually he almost doesn't notice it, but he does. It doesn't really bother him, but it's weird. It's so incredibly weird that he hasn't really formulated a real opinion on it.

"Speaking of Casper kids," Sam says, wary of where the conversation could go, "look over there: three o'clock."

The boys turn, and Tucker cracks up. "Wes Weston. I hadn't thought about that in a while."

Danny laughs too. He's surprised _Sam_ brought it up, considering she's the most sore about that topic, but he doesn't want to question it because it's just so _funny_. "_Danny,_" he mocks Sam's voice. "_Is there anything you've been meaning to tell us?_"

Tucker plays along. He pinches two fingers, as if he were holding the ring between them. "_Did you give this to me as a clue? You can just say it, there's no need to prepare us beforehand._"

The boys crack up. Then, unisonous: "_Flip it over, Sam! I'm not gay!_"

Sam huffs. "It was a perfectly logical theory."

"You sound like my sister," Danny says. Mentioning Jazz in this context is safe. "_Perfectly logical_. Tell me something: _If _I'd had that ring engraved, do you think I'd pick curvy lettering like that? Especially considering it was _your _name there? Gosh, Sam, I'm hurt. It's like you don't know me at all."

"Certainly felt that way at the time," Sam retorted. "I thought you were gay!"

Tucker snorted. "Which was, of course, the logical theory."

Sam says something else, but Danny tunes out their bickering. He's lost in that memory, when things were difficult but at the same time kind of simple; times when his secret was a few months old and hardly as heavy as it is now, when the definition of danger was still in development, when feelings were still new, raw, and a tad foreign to him. It's a happy place inside of his mind, and he lets himself enjoy it the way Jazz tells him to.

Then he's back in the real world, and his best friends are back at the same, jaded arguments they've thrown around for years: if Sam had talked to Tucker about it before confronting Danny, if Tucker would just listen and see the logic behind her plan of action, Sam could you _please _stop talking about logic…

The line advances and he leaves his mental happy place in a safe corner, because this happy place is worth recording, too.

* * *

The line took ages and the sun is high in the sky, but they're in now and he has a pretzel in his hand. These are good moments because there's laughter all around him and people in bright colors; he won't tell Jazz that he knows and understands how all this can help improve his mood. He just sucks it in and laughs with his friends.

Then they turn a corner and he stops laughing. "Hey, Tucker."

"Yesh?" Tucker has food in his mouth, but that stopped being funny and started being normal when they were eight, so he doesn't really pay attention.

"What was that _mystery ride _thing about? When you first pitched the idea of coming to the grand opening?"

"Just some surprise; a publicity trick to gather a crowd. The guy on the news said it was really "fitting" for Amity, whatever that meant. What about it?"

"You tell me. Look up from the food."

Sam's gasp is kind of incredulous—not quite a shock, or a scoff, or a snort. She's expressive like that, he thinks, and he's not fazed by how well he can recognize it. He actually agrees with the sentiment: this is not entirely unexpected but he doesn't find it as funny as he should.

Tucker does find it funny, though. He spits pretzel everywhere but isn't ashamed in the slightest. He's laughing and wide-eyed. "_The Phantom?_ You've got your own ride?"

"_Phantom_ has his own ride." He marks the difference though he knows there's none.

Well, on bad days—on okay days and all the way down the scale, really—he just sort of hopes there's no difference. That would be bad.

"Should I jot that down? It could be a sign of a personality disorder."

_These _things are part of why he finds it so strange to know that Tucker and Jazz talk.

"Think it's any good?" Sam asks. "It's really tall… and those turns seem pretty sharp. We should ride it. You could write a review or something, Danny."

"Ha-ha. Pass."

"The color scheme looks cool," Tucker says. "And they used hanging chairs instead of carts, which I bet adds to that "flying" feeling. We should give it a shot!"

"No way," Danny says. "Look at that line! The ride isn't even running yet, the people there are just _waiting_."

"You could just phase us to the front of the"—a glare from Sam cut him short—"or, you know what? The billion-person line in the scorching sun could totally be worth it in the end. I've heard stuff like that builds character."

"Maybe some other time," Danny says, distracted. That's his name—kind of—up there, in big letters. That's his—sort of unintentional—color scheme, too. Something "fitting" for Amity, the promo said. Is that what he is? He certainly doesn't feel like he fits in.

"Let's just go," he says. "I bet there's something else we can"—his breath goes cold and cuts him off, and it sucks, because it's horribly inappropriate in all this sun, and he doesn't even enjoy the brief respite from the thick air because all that dormant stress settles back in—"I'll just…"

Sam gives him a tight smile that's probably meant to be encouraging. She looks around and points to a spot to his left. "Behind that stand. Everyone's gawking at the ride, so no one will look the other way. My backpack is still in the lockers—I'll go get a thermos."

Tucker nods and runs off with Sam in the other direction. No time to lose, that's the motto, but he just stands there, alone, until he hears a crash behind him and people start screaming. He starts to run.

He's so tired.

The stand is abandoned now so he just ducks beneath it and shuts his eyes to keep the glare of the twin rings from blinding him. He feels the shift—it's always cold, but a strange, good sort of cold—and when he's good to go, he takes a deep breath and then goes invisible and intangible.

No one can see him and he takes advantage of the fact to scout the area. People are running around, Sam and Tucker are nowhere to be seen, and the crash he heard earlier is none other than _the _ride (not _his_ ride, that sounds too odd), dripping ectoplasm in some spots and smoking in others.

He is extremely thankful that no one had been riding yet. He'd been slow and he hadn't checked if someone had been near it… oh, gosh, if someone had been on it… the thought wakes him up.

There's a familiar chuckle behind him. He clenches one fist but doesn't turn around just yet. "What are you doing here, Skulker?"

There's that chuckle again. "Felt bored. I heard along the rumor mill that the humans built something for you. Decided I'd come and see for myself."

"Seems to me like you did a lot more than sightseeing," he says. He's a little glad the ride is gone but he's not sure why. The thought distracts him briefly, but then he replays Skulker's words in his head, and notices that they sound… strange.

Skulker's tone is too leisurely, like he's genuinely bored, yet excited at the prospect of finding something to do. It's overdone. It sounds strange because it's overdone. He turns to face Skulker—he seems to be alone. Good. "So you're just here to pick a fight? I haven't seen you in a while, and you're not the type to listen in on the rumor mill anyway. What do you want?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he looks for Sam and Tucker, but can't see them.

"You'd be surprised," he says, "at the things ghosts are murmuring. There's unease in the Ghost Zone, and most fingers point at you."

Skulker is too talkative, too. He wouldn't usually let information out as easily. Battle makes him speak up, not banter. "I haven't done anything, if that's what you're implying. I've been busy."

"I know. Everyone knows. That's the problem."

Cryptic isn't Skulker's style, either. He's not being sarcastic either. Danny takes the safe route through this conversation: "I'm not one to refuse some help when offered, but I don't think that's what you're implying. And what do you mean, everyone knows?"

Ask questions. If he's feeling talkative, let him talk.

Still no Sam. No Tucker.

"You'll see. You've got some things coming, ghost child, but I'd really like to know why it's turning into everyone's problem. Keep your business personal, yes? Don't answer. That's not really a question."

They're floating in mid-air; some people stayed behind to watch, some are even recording the whole exchange, but the park looks a lot more empty now than it did a few minutes ago. The ride is still smoking, but at least nothing is on fire.

Danny's curiosity is piqued. Skulker is acting oddly and talking too much and too cryptically. But there's a flash of purple in the corner of his eye and he remembers he has always hated cryptic, anyway, so he just rolls his eyes and says: "If you know I've been busy, you can tell my patience is thin. So, let's just get this over with, yes?"

In the next second, ice shoots out of his eyes, freezing Skulker's torso—including his jet pack. Skulker plummets to the ground. There's a small glow of self-satisfaction in Danny's chest, but it's brief, because that was too easy. Still, he quips: "Don't answer. That's not really a question."

The ice cracks on impact and Skulker rises quickly. People start running again, knowing that this is about to turn into a whole other level of dangerous. He and Skulker are everywhere: shooting, dodging and grunting. There's a kick to his stomach and a blasted ectogun. Singed white hair. The metal suit clanging and banging against the railing of a roller coaster, a side-to-side fall that doesn't look pretty.

There isn't much to say, really, and Danny's not up for witty banter and lousy puns. In fact, he's barely up for a fight—his legs still feel weak and he's so drained from the past few days, and that fudging sun is in his face and blinding him when he flies in the wrong direction.

That's the case when the ectobeam hits him—he's blinded by the sun and his reflexes are just _off _today; he's crash landing from who-knows-how-high in the air, and he's trying to fly but gravity's too strong and he's just not. He keeps falling and then he crashes, and something sharp and wide plunges into his arm and _damn _that hurts.

They're down by the stands again, him amidst the scattered remains of one and Skulker proudly towering over him. "Wow. This is pathetic."

Danny grunts. There's that purple flash in the corner of his eye. He just has to keep him distracted… "Complaints can be filed to the I-don't-really-care address. Please don't expect a response."

"Even your wit fails you."

"Thank-you, _Spectra_. So encouraging."

Skulker scoffs. "Resorting to name-calling? I was better off on my island, and that's saying a lot when the whole thing is falling to pieces thanks to"—a loud sucking sound cuts him off, and Danny finds his expression hilarious but can't laugh—"curses! No…!"

His voice fades and then it's gone, trapped in the best contraption his parents ever created. "What took so long?" he asks his friends, trying to sound light, knowing they'll panic in a few moments.

They pay no mind to his question, and the expected "You're bleeding!" arrives quickly. Can one call it bleeding when it's not blood? Ink can bleed through paper, right? But bleeding sounds like blood so it's probably specific to that word; someone probably just tried to be fancy and literary, said that ink can bleed too.

Lancer would be proud at his attempts at being poetic: here's to bleeding ectoplasm!

"Danny, focus on my voice." Sam's voice is so much nicer than that alarm clock. Or Lancer. "Danny, come on, there's no one here, we need to go now before they return. Damage control, remember? Your arm, oh gosh, your arm… damage control. C'mon, repeat after me: damage control.

He repeats, but it comes out weak and he can see her brow crease. No. He can do better than that. "Damage control," he says, purposefully loud. "Yeah. Got it. Let's go."

* * *

Sam's house isn't quite so far away from the park, so the three of them walk back, slowly, through the small and out-of-the-way roads no one takes that often to make sure no one sees the bleeding dude.

Sam pulled the sharp thing out—nothing less than a knife, though a small one, because of course he crashed against some sort of meat stand. He smells like meat and he has to hand it to Sam: she has guts for walking so close to his newly acquired scent without wavering in her grip on his good arm.

Once they arrive at Sam's house, Tucker goes straight home because his parents will probably be watching the news and having panic attacks right about now; Danny's are off on some science trip so they probably won't call to ask about it until that night. Sam's parents are out somewhere, as they always are, and her grandma won't ask questions about the bleeding arm if they insist that she doesn't ask.

But they don't see grandma Manson on the way up the stairs, so Sam just tells Danny to sit at his chair at the edge of her room while she pulls out a med kit.

"Does it hurt any less? Does it feel stiff or swollen?" are her first questions, all business and no nonsense. She's gotten good at this, he thinks.

She turns on the light but doesn't open her curtains, just in case. Her room is kind of gloomy and dark but at the same time it's not, because the chandelier hanging over her bed is just _huge_.

Danny tries to shrug but decides that he'd better not halfway through. He says: "Doesn't hurt as much. It's throbbing, but that's it. It's not that bad."

"I'll be the judge of that." She takes those smelly antiseptic wipes he hates and dabs at his arm. "Are you hurt anywhere else? I focused so much on all that blood that I didn't really check."

Everything hurts, but that's because his body is overworked and the human side of him can barely take it anymore. His mouth tastes like blood though, and that's not normal. "Mouth tastes like blood. Might be nothing. Check the arm first."

She nods and never looks away from the now pink mess that is his arm. "Nothing important was punctured—the cut wasn't as deep as I thought—but I'm still going to wrap it tight. You have to promise me you'll change the bandages because my nerves aren't up for treating gangrene. Got that?"

He nods. He knows she's not squeamish—he's seen enough horror movies with her to know so—but something about seeing so much blood and gore on _him _so often probably isn't as entertaining. And he knows she's done research—she knows too much about first aid to really call it first aid anymore—and that can't be any fun, either. She did stitches once. It sucked.

Man, that sucked.

He won't go to hospitals, though, and she doesn't really want him in one either. But sometimes she still suggests it, because any doctor knows so much more than her, and what if there's internal damage, what if she missed something, what if she mistreats something…

She's the bravest person he knows, but when it's down to blood and bandages, she gets scared. He does that: scare her. He hates that.

She finishes tying the bandage, so tight it makes the throbbing go stronger, but he doesn't say a word. She runs a quick inspection on his other arm, both legs (cleans a small cut that's half-closed already), turns him over to see if there are any blood stains on his back (none). Checks his neck, feels around his head (he'd call it a massage if he couldn't feel her fingers twitch and tremble). Analyzes his face for a long time.

They're silent the whole time, him staring at her eyes or her fingers. She's diligent and concentrated, and she shouldn't have to be so. She's his best friend, not his doctor. She shouldn't have to look up gangrene on weekends. Damn it, she shouldn't know how to do stitches.

"Seems like you're okay. This is the sort of thing you sleep off. As for the blood on your mouth—split lip. You don't feel the blood running down your throat or anything like that, right? And nothing feels out of sorts on the inside, right? Just sore muscles?"

He hesitates because he's not really conscious of feeling; everything has gone into a steady state of "ow" that makes nothing and everything stand out. He focuses and checks because if he gives her a quick answer she'll just get mad and force him to _make sure_. "Just the split lip. I'm okay."

She nods, biting her lip again while she dabs some blood off the corner of his lip. She's always biting her lip these days. He's seen the cylindrical outline of chapstick in her pocket. It's a habit now, one that requires chapstick—maybe a vice?

She finishes and for a while they're quiet, unmoving. "Thanks," he says.

She nods. "Welcome. Get up. I want to see you walk."

He does so, just fine, so her shoulders finally relax and she sits on her bed while he returns to his chair. Then she speaks up: "So, talk." She clears her throat, and the word "please" slips out, and it's not as nonchalant.

She's his best friend, so he talks. He starts with the stress and the anxiety of the week, which she's seen from a front row seat. That's the easy part.

Then he says: "It's summer. It's summer before senior year, we're seventeen years old. We should be on road trips or at parties. You shouldn't have to take some sort of online med school, Tucker shouldn't have to keep lying to his parents about his whereabouts all the time. We should be eating junk food."

The rant goes on and she listens. She's good at that. When he starts reusing old arguments she raises a hand, because he's about to get to the "stitches!" thing and they both know she hates to think about that day.

"I have the time and money to study medicine and get equipment. And it's interesting enough, Danny, I'm not making the big sacrifice you make it out to be. Tucker knows how to measure these things and he knows when enough is enough. Lying to his parents is an unfortunate side effect that he agreed to. He's a big boy and he can take his own decisions.

"As for being regular teenagers; I can't believe you haven't let that go! We've had this conversation, and I won't have it again, so just get this into your head: I understand you didn't choose this lifestyle, and I'm sorry because I kind of pushed you into it. Tucker and I wouldn't trade any of this for the world because you're our best friend. Remember? I'm not some comic book sidekick; I'm your best friend, and that means I'm under no obligation to do any of this. I choose to, every day, the same way Tucker and Jazz do."

He keeps quiet. She's right but he hates it. He won't say it aloud because she'll get frustrated, but he's just so tired right now.

She stands up and pulls on his good arm so he does the same. She hugs him, the way she does about once a year, when she just lets him hold her and say nothing, stay still, breathe in and out, until he wants to let go. She doesn't like physical affection too much—she's a words and actions sort of person—but he's a hugger (it's a Fenton thing) and she gets that.

She gets _everything_. She's patient and understanding and _damn it _she deserves better.

He doesn't know how long they're there, but the moment he lets go he doesn't really want to; he does, anyway, because he's starting again, thinking about her the way he shouldn't. It's easy, sometimes, to just think about her as his best friend because it's something that's been permanent in his life for a really long time. It's normal, comfortable and easy to say that she's his best friend. It's reality.

But then it's the little things, like her biting her lips or dabbing chapstick onto them, or letting him hug her like this, breathing in her scent (he has no idea what it is and it drives him nuts because—really—how does one inquire about that sort of thing?). Little things that make him think differently, dangerously. That's uncharted territory and he's decided that it's staying like that for a variety of reasons that include (but are not limited to) her safety.

"I know you're tired," she says. "I know things are bad. I'll be honest—I think they'll get worse before they get better. But," she pauses for emphasis, and to make sure he's listening, "you're doing something good. People built a ride about you because they admire and appreciate you. You know that, don't you? They don't know a thing about you, other than the fact that you keep the city safe, and that fact alone makes you special in their eyes. You _are_ special. It's very unfortunate that they don't know how much—but I do. Tucker and Jazz know, as do your parents, even Mr. Lancer. We know you and you mean something to all of us. Think about that, okay?"

He nods and tries to smile. Yes, she's a words sort of person.

"Good." She breathes in and out slowly. Then: "It's still sunny outside, and I'd rather you don't go flying in broad daylight like this—and don't tell me you can go invisible because that's not going to happen. You need to rest. I'll get one of the drivers to give you a ride home, and then you're going straight to bed, mister."

* * *

**A/N:** So? Yay or nay? I'm really nervous about this one because I'm fairly new to the phandom and I haven't written a fic in years. How's that for nostalgia?

This is the first chapter of a long fic that'll probably add up to 15-20 chapters. I'll post again next weekend. Happy Phanniemay!

(If you want to see the blog dedicated to this story on tumblr, look for it as dpkingofclubs.)

—Rose.

P.S. I used the prompt "Ghost King" in this chapter in the sense that this whole story is about that prompt, and the whole story begins here. That plotline is being set up here, but it is not yet mentioned (that's for next chapter). Sorry for any confusion!


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything Nickelodeon owns.

**Claimer: **This story is mine, though. I'm the one thinking it up and writing it down.

* * *

**Chapter Two**  
Jazz & Sam & Tucker

_2013.8—Tucker Foley_

_2013.9—Sam Manson_

_2013.28—Jazz Fenton_

* * *

Everything hurts and there's a crick in his neck. His pillow feels damp (but it's probably drool) and the sheets are tangled around his shins (but that's just because it's summer and he probably felt too warm). For a moment he's stuck in knowing he's awake but entirely unmoving. He can feel blood rushing through his veins, pumping through his migraine; can hear his breathing, feel the rise and fall of his chest—a strange harmony with his heartbeat.

Then he opens his eyes, and the feeling is gone.

Light streams through the half-closed curtains, leaving a little trail on the floor and walls; the sight is oddly comforting. He makes an effort to sit up, careful to rely only on his good arm. Stretching a little, he looks down at his shirt and sees it's not bloodstained. Neither are the tight bandages wrapped around his arm.

He furrows his brow. He really doesn't remember changing, but then again, he doesn't remember much of anything that happened after he left Sam's. Looking at the alarm clock on his bedside table, he calculates he's been asleep about six hours. His stomach growls and confirms the thought: he skipped lunch.

He slowly slips out of bed, rolling his neck and shoulders to get the stiffness out. He first notices that he needs a shower. He stinks of sweat and his mouth is dry and his eyelids are glued together with sleep. Yet he feels better, a little, in the sense that he can think a little more clearly without so many emotions tugging at every thought. He feels more conscious of his surroundings and, in the eerie quiet, the feeling multiplies.

As he nears the stairs, he hears the TV's mumble and Jazz's voice on the phone. He takes small, soft steps so he won't scare her, hoping to grab a cereal bar and get out of the kitchen before he's met with the worried eyes and well-meaning questions. He reaches the bottom and Jazz hasn't noticed a thing, nodding along at the phone.

And then he's at the pantry and she still hasn't noticed, but he hears her speak up: "I know, Tucker, but Sam already told you it wasn't as bad as it looked. I changed the bandages an hour ago and it looks fine. He's still asleep."

She's talking to Tucker. About him. He should feel comforted that there are people worrying over him, people that care, but he's not. Guilt is the first to settle back into his system now that he's awake, and he wants to leave before it gets worse, but he doesn't.

"Look, it makes sense. Sam told you the truth: he's okay. I checked on him earlier, and he wasn't thrashing about or anything. He's just tired. And—wait—no, let me speak. Yes, she's obviously worried and doesn't want to talk about it. We're all worried and none of us really knows what to think. The attacks can't go on like this forever, so we just have to be patient and prepared. He needs us, so we'll be there, and we'll deal with this step by step. Got it?" Another pause, this one longer. "You're so stubborn. Go call Sam, I'm sure she needs it more than I do. No—Tucker—Tucker, I'm _fine_. Go. I'll check up on him. Yes—yes—_yes, I'll keep you updated, _quit stalling!"

Another pause and the phone goes back to its stand. He's thinking about making a run for it—now he really doesn't want to face the questions—but he's glued to his spot and his eyes are staring straight at his sister, as if she's some alien concept he can't quite define.

The definition (or lack thereof) is reinforced when, without turning, she says: "when there are only two people in the house, and one is seated, a door opening and closing usually means the other one is on the move."

If he weren't a C-student, he would've figured that one out when he left his room. "Hi."

She stands up and looks him over. She has always been tall but he's taller than her now, just by a little, and he knows she still finds it disconcerting. "Hi. C'mon, I bet you're hungry."

He grabs a glass of water while she heats some leftover lasagna for him. Then she sits at the opposite side of the kitchen table and for a while they only hear his fork scraping against the plate.

Then she speaks. "Keep in mind that you wouldn't have heard that conversation if I hadn't allowed you to. I did know you were there."

He takes a gulp of water. "Sorry."

She shrugs. "It's alright. I let you hear that. We're all here for you, and if there's anything you'd like to share…"

He shakes his head. "Not now. I don't want to think about any of it right now."

She looks disappointed. "Right, okay. In that case, how about a distraction? It's still ghost-related, but I think you'll find this interesting."

He hesitates, because he'd like _some _part of his life to be about anything other than ghosts right about now, but he nods along because he's in a better mood and Jazz _did _say interesting. "Shoot."

Pleased, she sits up a little straighter. "Well, I've been looking into all the data we've gathered on ghosts lately, and some of it suggests that ghosts aren't actually… dead. As in, they're not dead people. This means you're not half-dead—you're just half-ghost."

His last bite of lasagna doesn't make it to his mouth. "Oh, yeah, that last bit made a ton of sense, Jazz."

She looks like she expected that response. "It does! Look, I've been thinking about this ever since the Guys in White tried to shoot that missile into the Ghost Zone, but only recently found some data to prove it. Remember what Tucker said back then, about the Ghost Zone being the flip-side of our world? Well, that just doesn't fit with Mom and Dad's definition of ghosts."

He swallows his last bite. "Why not? They're just remnant energy—_dead_ people's remnant energy. That's why ghosts have obsessions. Plus, just look at it this way: death is the flip-side of life. We're alive, they're dead. It makes sense just fine to me."

"It did to me, too, until a few weeks ago," she insists. "Just listen. I took a peek at some of Mom's notes on ectoplasm. It doesn't have DNA or anything like that, but it has a form of molecular structure. If ghosts were really just remnant energy, they wouldn't have an internal environment. Mom's really puzzled about this because she thinks ghosts have to consciously concentrate on holding a physical form, so they'd obviously have to concentrate on having an internal environment too. But they don't do that—I know for a fact _you _don't.

"So, if it's not that, then what? Part of this internal environment is a ghost-form of DNA in their ectoplasm, which functions basically just like ours. I think that's also why your system didn't reject the ectoplasm created by the shock in the portal. They're parallel sorts of things—our DNA and theirs, our world and theirs."

This is too much for having _just _woken up. He stands up; partially because he wants seconds, mostly because listening to Jazz like that, stuck in a chair, feels too much like school and it's frustrating him. "No offense, Jazz, but I'm the one that likes bio and chem, and I'm not so sure about any of that. How are _you_?"

"Because it's in the notes! _Mom's _notes! Look, maybe _some _ghosts are dead people's spirits or remnant energy or whatever—I'm thinking of that wish-granting ghost because she had a backstory, so it makes sense, but I'm still figuring that one out. Or Pointdexter, but he's stuck in an alternate reality, which I can't figure out either.

"But ghosts like you _aren't _dead people. If the Ghost Zone is the flip-side of our world, maybe it makes sense that some other species exists in it the way we exist here. The chemical structure of our world is made out of elements like carbon and oxygen. Theirs is made out of whatever the heck is in ectoplasm. It makes sense! It's like… aliens, but instead of from outer space, they're from a parallel dimension of sorts."

Chewing, he mulls it over because Jazz was right—this _is _interesting—and because one little idea has caught his attention: maybe he's not dead. That idea has always bothered him; it's the one part of the deal he never really made peace with.

If what Jazz says is true, he won't ever have to. But… "If I'm not half-dead, then, what am I?"

She shrugs. "Half-our chemicals and half-theirs? I'm not really sure. I think of you as some sort of perfect midpoint between our world and theirs. I mean, you got your powers from a shock in a _portal between worlds_. Blatant symbolism aside, I think it worked like magnets pushing and pulling at you at the same time. The portal was meant to transport you into the Ghost Zone, but it didn't. But you stood past the boundary line of our world because you were _inside _the portal, so you weren't actually here either. Except you were—you know, in our basement."

He sets his empty glass on the table and it makes more noise than he'd intended. "I'm confused."

Jazz sighs. "I've been thinking this over for _weeks, _Danny, I don't expect you to get it just yet. But this is worth looking up for a variety of reasons. Forget the science of it, think ethics! They aren't dead people or dead people's energy—they're a completely different category of chemical composition, and maybe that would be plausible if they didn't _think_. They think and want stuff and _feel_ stuff. They have a wide spectrum of feelings just like us!"

This is psychology territory, and Danny wants nothing to do with it, curious or not. He opts for asking: "Will you tell Mom and Dad about it?"

Jazz slumps in her seat, the excitement gone from her eyes. She leans her head on one hand. "I should and I want to, but I can't just yet. I have to sort all this data see what proof I can gather—you know they won't really look into it without proof to garner their curiosity. I'm at a standstill here."

He's about to nod, maybe throw in some words of encouragement, when the last bite of lasagna in his mouth goes cold and freezes a little. Instincts kick in: he spits it out.

Jazz scrunches up her nose. "Danny, gross! What was that for?"

He's about to explain himself, somehow, when another voice cuts in—"Time out."

He gets that weird feeling of detachment as everything freezes in place. Jazz's nose is still scrunched up and her eyes are squinting a little, and _oh _he'd love to have a camera right now. Instead, he turns to see Clockwork seated at the other side of his kitchen table. He half-wishes he still had the naiveté required to feel shock.

Instead, he stands up and sets his plate in the sink. Steeling his nerves—because, _c'mon_, he just got up—he says: "If we're going to have a conversation, which I suppose we will, can it not be here?" Having a conversation in front of frozen Jazz sounds a tad unnerving.

Clockwork nods. "I was hoping you'd ask. Come."

Cryptic _is _Clockwork's style, so Danny stands up and takes relief in knowing that at least one ghost is acting normal around here.

* * *

"Jazz thinks you're having some sort of panic attack right now."

"I shouldn't be surprised."

"She says you should talk about it; might make you feel better."

"I'm good."

"I don't think so."

"Tucker…"

"Sam…"

"I'm just a little worried."

"Mm-hmm."

"We all are, anyway. You know the feeling."

"'Course I do."

"I'm also just overtired. The week's been hard on all of us."

"Definitely."

Silence on the other end of the line. Then: "Okay, fine. You wanna hear it? Fine. You'll hear it." A pause. "I'm worried sick because Danny's acting really off, and I thought it'd be over once all these attacks were up, but now I can't help but wonder if they'll end at all. He's under a lot of stress and it's just not healthy—damn it, Tuck, we're not even worrying about school right now and he's still under so much pressure! Can you imagine what it'd be like if his parents had been home this week? He'd be a wreck! And they'll be home tomorrow evening, _may I remind you_—do you know what that means? We've got _hours_, Tuck! We've got a matter of hours to make sure he's in tip-top condition so no one notices that he's a nervous wreck!"

"I think you're the nervous wreck."

She's quiet for a few seconds. "That too."

"Hm. Feel any better?"

"Hell no."

"Hm. Worth a try."

A snort. "And you? Have anything you'd like to get off your chest?"

"Nah. Jazz already heard it all—she wanted me to be relaxed when I faced you. Between her and me, I obviously got the short stick."

"Ha-ha."

"Sam, it's not healthy for you to worry about him like this. I mean, I do it too, and my nerves are totally paying the price for it, but we can't keep this up. And he shouldn't either, I know. What I mean is, we need a Plan B."

"Plan B? Like what? _Valerie_?"

"It's a good idea, but no, that's not what I meant. I think we should get to the bottom of this, see what's up with the coordinated attacks. It's not normal, even by our standards, and I'm worried it could get worse. We can't afford anything worse."

"I know."

He says nothing for a moment. "We'll get through this, you know that. We always do."

"Yeah."

"You don't sound convinced."

"It's not like he's invincible, Tucker. You and I certainly aren't. We're doing our best but maybe someday that won't be enough. Doesn't that worry you in the slightest?"

"Scares the crap out of me."

"So?"

"So that doesn't mean we stop trying. We've come this far to let a couple of 'what ifs' and _fear _of all things stop us."

"Did Jazz tell you that?"

"'Course she did," he snorts, "but only because she paraphrased something I was trying to say. My point is that we don't have that many options here. We'll look into Plan B, yeah? And, in the meantime, we'll take care of Danny while he takes care of everyone else."

"Danny-duty for the win."

"Always." He laughs. "So. Feel better yet?"

A pause. "Maybe a little."

"Better that than nothing. Go to sleep, Sam. We all need it, and Jazz said she'd keep an eye on the ecto-readings for today. She'll call if anything shows up."

"Yeah, okay." She doesn't want to hang up just yet. "Hey, Tucker?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm not taking Danny-duty the day you confess you have a crush on his sister."

"Ha-ha."

"I'm serious."

"I can tell."

"Dead serious."

"Maybe half-dead?"

"Tucker…"

"Sam… I could just confess a few things for _you_ while I'm at it."

A pause. A strange sound that oddly resembles a hiss. "Damn you, Tucker."

* * *

"When I said '_not here_,' I kind of meant my room, or my basement..."

Clockwork doesn't usually smile, or grin, but he does look sort of amused. "You didn't specify. Come on."

Clockwork's lair is an interesting place. He finds it comforting in strange sort of way, knowing that all the gears clicking and ticking into place have a purpose, a place, a connection to all the others through a synchronized chain. It's the sort of thing Jazz would fawn over, liking the precision of it.

It's also dark, as is most of the Ghost Zone, but the portals hanging pretty much everywhere irradiate plenty of light. It's a shadowy sort of place, he surmises. He likes it.

"To be perfectly honest," Clockwork says, floating up a staircase, "I'm not quite sure how to explain this."

"Just take your time," Danny says, grinning. He's trying to keep the mood light for his own sake, and it's easier than he thought. "By the look on Jazz's face, it looks like we've got plenty of it."

Clockwork rolls his eyes. "Seems so." He's quiet for a moment—then, with a wave of his scepter, a new portal appears. "Watch closely. I suppose you remember this?"

Oh, he didn't need this at all. So much for the mood. "Yes," he says, looking away. "Yes, I remember it. I don't need to see it."

Clockwork waves his scepter again, but when Danny looks up, the portal is still there, just fast-forwarded. Looking at the memory, at himself, he feels kind of helpless, knowing he has to see it all the way through because there's no changing any of it. In the memory he's fourteen again, weaker than he's ever been in his entire life, going up against an enemy his _own _enemies are scared of.

"Why am I looking at this?"

His question is waved away. "Almost there, just pay attention."

He does. It's almost over—he's splitting into two now—there goes an ectobeam, the crown's in his hands—propulsors starting up—he remembers the feeling, like pushing the weight of Mt. Everest with his pinky finger—so close, so close…

Another hand presses the key into the sarcophagus, and it's over.

His breathing and heartbeat sped up, as if he'd actually been there again. He clenches his fingers and doesn't look at Clockwork when he asks: "Was that really necessary?"

"Possibly not, but I thought it a fitting introduction."

Sometimes he just doesn't like this guy. "For _what_?"

Clockwork actually thinks it over. "Good question. After this battle, Vlad Plasmius made a comment about chess—I'll take advantage of the metaphor for my own purposes. Tell me, what happens when you topple the enemy's king?"

He doesn't know much about chess, but this sounds fairly familiar. "I don't know, err… you win?"

"Yes. You win. Applying that concept to the defeat of _that _king, what would the winner have to gain?"

He wishes cryptic wasn't Clockwork's style. "World peace?"

Clockwork sighs. "Close enough, maybe, under the right circumstances. Think about it. In your world, humans defeat more powerful ones to gain status of their own. In your medieval times, if a king was challenged and defeated, he sometimes transferred wealth and status to his opponent."

"You're saying I'll get a cash prize for beating Pariah?"

The look on Clockwork's face clearly means _no_. "Please focus. You challenged Pariah Dark and defeated him. You took his crown from him during the battle—literally _and _metaphorically. You took it and then _won_. The object itself recognizes its new proprietor: you."

There's a lot of silence in his head for a while, and this time he can't really attribute it to his being a C-student. Then the gears start groaning and squeaking into action, connecting dots. His mouth opens to retort, or laugh, or simply formulate some sort of coherent reply that would quickly discard the assumptions he's making in his head, but nothing leaves it, so he closes it. Then tries again, and closes it again.

"_I accept your challenge_," Pariah had said when their battle began. He formally accepted a challenge from him? A fourteen-year-old in a half-drained battle suit? Perhaps not a risk, but still a dumb move. What had he to gain from crushing a teenager? A half-human, very close to being drained to death, reckless teen that tried to play hero. Not exactly the definition of worthy opponent.

Except he won. He passed out a second later, but he won.

_Took his crown_…

The concept suddenly sounds hilarious. "Okay, I see your point, but you can't actually see that as valid, can you? This was years ago! And, anyway, do challenges from half-ghosts count? From fourteen-year-olds? I'd barely hit puberty!"

"Your being a half-ghost was the technicality that had council thinking for all these years. This has been a problem for a while now."

"Oh, this has been a problem for _you_? I'm so sorry. Next time, I totally won't risk my life to lock maniacs back into big boxes. I'm sure the Box Ghost could handle that one for you."

"Stop that, this is serious."

"Yes, I can see that, trying not to think about it too hard, thank-you. So council was thinking. And then? Are they still thinking? May I remind them I'm a teenager? A C-student?"

"Danny, just sit. You're making me nervous."

"Oh, now I'm making you _nervous_. I'm so sorry, I'm such an inconvenience, I'll just be leaving—OW!" There's a scorch mark on his shirt where the ectobeam hit, and his bottom is sore from crash-landing into a chair. He sits up straight. "Okay," he groans, "I think I deserved that."

"You did. Now keep quiet."

Clockwork paces for a while. "Council thought your being only _half_-ghost would exempt you from regular protocol in cases like this. No one really knows these rules well—we've only used them twice before, and one of those times was their creation. And you _were _exempt. The rules aren't designed to include cases like you.

"So. Case closed. You'd never learn about the implications behind your actions and things would go on normally now that Pariah is asleep again. Council would retain power, no one else would find out. That was the conclusion reached two years ago, and only council, Walker, and myself knew about it until now."

He scrunches his brow. "Walker?"

"Who else did you think we'd consult for the rules?"

_Isn't council supposed to know stuff like that?_ He just shrugs. Ghost politics are even weirder than human ones—a mess he wouldn't ever want to try to understand.

"We carried on normally, but then the problems started. Just because a code of laws dictated that you didn't count doesn't mean the crown thinks the same."

That sounds too much like Jazz for him to be comfortable with the idea. "The crown _thinks_?"

"Just pay attention! The crown and ring are ultimately weapons, and if they're upset—bear with the metaphors, Danny, please—if they're upset, they wreak havoc. They have not been properly recognized by their true owner, that's you, and that has led to plenty of trouble inside the Ghost Zone. It's crumbling—has been for a while now, but we only recently realized why."

"Is _crumbling_ supposed to be a metaphor, too?"

Clockwork sighs. "In a way. The Ghost Zone is closing in on itself, tearing itself apart, falling into a natural state of chaos. There's tension in the air and everyone is… twitchy. Think of your confrontation with Skulker yesterday. Did he not seem nervous to you?"

He tried to focus on the question, rather than everything else he's hearing. "Yes. Talkative. He mentioned his island—falling apart, he said. That's actually happening?"

The nod he receives is a small, seemingly weak answer, but it's not, because it confirms everything he just heard and connects the last dot in his head. He's been under too much stress this week and that's probably why he feels so overwhelmed, but at the same time it's probably the only reason his nerves are steeled and prepared for him to think straight under duress.

Or maybe he just _thinks _he's thinking straight but is actually going mad and seeing things, because this really doesn't sound realistic—and he _has _seen some weird stuff.

Danny breathes in, breathes out. Not going mad, just keep talking. Not going mad. "So… what now?"

Clockwork grimaces. "Well, now you choose. You either refuse the crown and let the Ghost Zone crumble, or you accept it and take up Pariah's throne."

* * *

**A/N:** Love it? Hate it? On the edge of your seat? Bored to tears? Please say so!

Not quite as long as the last chapter, but it's infodumpy and I didn't want it to drag on too much. More details next week!

Happy Phanniemay, thanks for reading!

—Rose.

P.S. I changed the summary because I didn't like the shortened version of the original (which you can find on this story's tumblr, dpkingofclubs).


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything Nickelodeon owns.

**Claimer: **This story is mine, though. I'm the one thinking it up and writing it down.

* * *

**Chapter Three**  
Unlucky OC & Family

_2014.15—Unlucky_

_2014.30—OC_

_2013.23—Family_

* * *

He just told them and now they're quiet.

They're at Sam's; Jazz knows he's here and Tucker's parents, surprisingly, do too. None of the "responsible adults" know why, though, because when he organized this little get-up at three am, he pulled a Clockwork and said "it's important" without any more specifics.

It's a tribute to their friendship to know they're here. Tucker's even in his PJ's.

They've been quiet for at least five full minutes now, and they both wear this dazed look on their faces. It's late and they _were _asleep, so it makes sense to think that they're slow, but the silence is making him more and more anxious with every jittery beat of his heart.

Tucker speaks up first. "It's a shitty excuse for a choice if I've ever heard of one."

Danny has no idea what to make of that, so he just nods because—honestly?—he agrees. Kind of. "It's not a choice, though. I will do it. I have to."

"And there's no other way?" Sam asks. "Think. You took the crown from Pariah—someone could take it from you and leave it at that. I mean, unless you're up for it. That possibility exists too. Do you want this?"

The thought hadn't even crossed his mind. He's allowed to say if he wants this or not? "Erm… no. Not at all."

Sam nods. "Okay. Forgive the question, just bear with me, but why not?"

That one totally catches him off guard. Why not? Because the mere idea fills him with dread, because it certainly doesn't appeal, because it sounds wrong on so many levels. And, he knows this excuse is getting old, but really, he's seventeen! Not old enough to be any sort of legal leader in his world—why in theirs?

And—this is the big one—it'd _change_ things.

He knows none of these are the type of argument Sam is looking for, though, so he settles for a more concrete example: "The crown and the ring are primarily energy, or power. Clockwork said it himself—they're ultimately weapons. And I'm supposed to ownthem? _Use_ them? Does that not, somehow, sound _wrong _to you?"

"On a variety of levels, yes, it does," Sam says, sighing. "Look, I'm just listing pros and cons in my head. My first thought was that there has to be another way. But then I thought, why should there? Can't you reap some sort of benefit from this? Not just for you, but for everyone?"

He's taken aback. _Is she for real?_ "I can't see it, no."

"I can. You toppled a maniac, Danny. One that spent who-knows-how-long asleep, granted, but you got rid of him. Who knows what sort of lasting effect he left on the Ghost Zone! You could fix things! Help the ghosts, cut off the attacks, make peace between two worlds. You're a halfa, you're the perfect mediator!"

It clicks in his mind where she's going with this. Of course her first instinct is to help people. It's one of the reasons he respects her, but on this one occasion, he feels a little hurt. "Forgive the stereotypically teen selfishness, but where does that leave me?"

"Satisfied with knowing you did the right thing?" She shrugs. "I know what you're thinking, okay? Don't. It's a theory, Danny. I bet there are a million technicalities I'm not seeing, and of course I'm worried sick about what will happen to you. My point is that there are branches to this issue and you should at least look at them all." She pauses, gives him a look he knows well. "I bet you came here brain-dead and wondering what to think. You haven't had the energy to mull this over completely—I'd be surprised if you did—and I'm just pointing out the part you haven't considered yet."

He's about to respond (though how, he's not sure) but Tucker says: "I'll cut in right here before any of us gets carried away." Tucker looks at him. "Sam's got a point"—he turns to Sam—"but so does Danny. It's a huge deal. It's… responsibility, you know? I mean, Pariah Dark totally slept this one off, but you won't. So, then what? You'll just take command of an infinite amount of space with an indefinable amount of inhabitants and threats—not to mention that said space, as we now know, is _crumbling_—without any sort of expectation or experience?

"Yes, Sam, the concept has potential, but this is bigger than putting on a crown and saying _do this_, _do that_. The Ghost Zone hasn't _had _a king in ages, so what reaction should we expect? I mean—"

"Stop there," Danny cuts in. "I get the point. Just… let's stop with the questions overall." Sweat is breaking out over his forehead even though it's always cool in Sam's basement. "Let's leave _what if_s for later. We know that the Ghost Zone is falling apart so, by default, our world is too. We know the only way to stop that from happening is if someone takes up ownership of the crown and ring—so it's a fact that, one way or another, that has to happen."

"And we know that the current owner is you," Sam adds, "unless someone else steps in. Somehow. We'd have to look up the conditions for the transfer of power."

"Right." Tucker is taking notes on his PDA. "There's a start. And supposing we found a way to get you out of this, who'd step in?"

"I was thinking of Clockwork, to be honest," Danny says, "but it's not very plausible because he already has a thousand duties of his own. And I don't think he'd do it—not even for me. Besides, Council wouldn't be too happy about it, which is a minor detail, but it could mean trouble in the future."

His friends nod. "What about Dora?" Tucker asks. "She's a queen already, surely she'd know how to work this out."

"Dora's a good option," Danny agrees, "but she's… I don't know. I don't want to drop a burden like this on her, even if she'd know how to handle it. I can't see it happening—her taking care of something like this for all eternity. It sounds kind of cruel."

His comment makes a new doubt arise among them. "Would that… same concept, let's put it," Sam says, "apply to you, too?"

"I don't know," Danny says. He hadn't thought of that. How had he _not_ thought of that? "I don't think so. I mean, I've aged normally these past years, haven't I?"

"Yeah, yeah," Tucker says, quick and firm. "You have, it's just that—err, the crown and ring _are _energy. Wouldn't that have something to do…?"

Danny shakes his head. He pulls his knees in closer, leans more of his weight on the wall. "I don't know."

Shortly after the accident, when he abruptly stopped growing for a few months (right after a marked period of growth spurts), they'd all worried that being half-ghost would stop him from aging. He remembers those few weeks: the panic of wondering what would happen if he lived forever, of wondering how he'd explain it, how he'd cope with it. He knew from the beginning that he didn't want to live forever, but the more he thought about it, the more convinced he was—the more scared.

Scared. He'd put off going into the Ghost Zone to ask Clockwork about it for nearly a month, just because he was scared of the answer. He kept waiting to grow, but he didn't. The fear became too much one night, he went. He asked, trembling, and found out that if that part of his DNA had been affected by the shock, he wouldn't have developed that pimple on his forehead.

He thought that feeling of relief would last forever—and it had, until yesterday. Every time he'd looked in the mirror for the last three years, noticing he'd grown taller, shoulders broader… he'd breathed in relief. He's the only teenager in the world that grins every time he wakes up to a zit.

But if the energy from the crown and ring further tampers with his DNA…

"We'll look it up," Sam says, her voice loud, trying to cover up hesitation and a marked tremble. "Jot that down, Tucker. We'll look it up."

Tucker obliges.

"Danny," Sam says, her voice somewhat back to normal. "Did Clockwork say anything else?"

His lips are pursed because he's suddenly _really_ tired and doesn't want to say another word. A feeling invades him as he realizes, now more aware than ever: this is real. This is real and this is happening and it's a real problem in _his_ real life. To hell with all those thinkers that say that nothing is real. This fear and anxiety settling on his back along with the weight of responsibility—this is all very real, and it's suddenly _exhausting._

"Danny?" Sam repeats.

He's a bit more startled than he should be, and it takes him a moment to recall her question. "Just said I could have some time to think this over." He shrugs, and then it hits him: "Oh, and to look up some famous ghosts named Scepter and Iris. I asked what was so important about them, but he didn't say another word and the next thing I knew I was back at home." His jaw tightens. "Sorry. I, uh, got mad after that and sort of forgot about it. I guess I should've mentioned it earlier."

"It's okay," Sam nods. "Scepter and Iris. Tuck, you got that?"

"Got it."

"Alright," she says. She's quiet for some time, fiddling with her fingers. "Alright. Danny, take the couch on the far end of the room. Tucker, stretch out that sofa on your right, I'll take the one on the left. We can't think straight anymore so just get some sleep. We'll think more about this in the morning, starting with—I'm sorry, Danny—pulling Jazz into this. She deserves to know, okay? Plus, she's a researcher extraordinaire."

Danny wants to argue; he kind of knows that's his call and not hers, but he agrees. In fact, he now wishes he'd brought Jazz along in the first place. Even in times of stress, she's good at keeping a cool head, even more so than Sam.

So he doesn't argue. He just nods his head and pulls himself onto the couch, and a moment later he's asleep.

* * *

It doesn't last, though, because it's five am, he just woke up from a nightmare, and he doesn't dare go back to sleep.

Adrenaline is the only keeping his eyelids open. Seated at Sam's kitchen table, listening to the TV while surfing the web on her laptop, he's doing what he hates most: watching the news.

He doesn't know if he has a hero complex or not, but he does know he hates watching people's problems and knowing he can't do much about them. He can fight any and all the ghosts they want—and if he can't, he will anyway—but how in the world is he supposed to stop an 8.2 degree earthquake?

He dreamt that Skulker's island crashed to bits and now there's a whole city in South America going through the exact same thing. Except there are casualties there, ones that he couldn't prevent, and this is killing him but he can't—stop—watching.

The internet isn't doing much to improve his mood, but that hardly matters to him. What matters is that there's a cold front in the south and everyone's puzzled—two months ago there was this other massive earthquake in Japan (and that sturdy arc is still afoot)—the Western Antarctic ice sheet is a total goner now and some people are _still _notgetting the message about global warming—and there's all this political tension on the other side of the world that sounds really bad because it's been around for two years now _and it's not getting better._

He's getting scared because ghosts are twitchy and that apparently makes humans twitchy, and Skulker's island is gone and so is a good chunk of an island off the southern coast of Argentina…

Absorbed in his work, he doesn't notice the footsteps until the purple fingernails push the laptop's lid shut. "If you put that much effort into your schoolwork," she chides, but her voice is too sleepy for it to sound as menacing as usual, "you'd give me a run for my money. And I have a lot of money."

Her humor is smoothed over by sleep, too. Otherwise, she'd never mention money. He shrugs. "Go to sleep, Sam."

"No way." She hands him a phone—his phone. "Jazz called and your ringtone woke me up. I noticed you weren't there, assumptions ensued, I told her I'd handle it." She pulls on his arm. "So I'll handle it. But not here. I eat breakfast with my parents here."

That's enough of an explanation, he supposes, so he lets her turn the TV off and haul him to the living room. He can still see it though, hear the frantic reporter…

She sits down next to him on the rug, beside the stereo set her mother hates (her dad loves it and it's the one thing he won't let her have the final word on). Sam fiddles with the CD cases, neatly lined in perfect alphabetical order. "How long have you been up?"

"Not long."

She nods. "That earthquake looked really bad."

"You should see Skulker's island."

"Did you?" She looks startled, more so when he doesn't answer outright. "You went to the Ghost Zone? Without telling us?"

She looks far more awake and now she _does _look menacing. "No! No, I… dreamt it."

Perplexed. His vocabulary isn't close to matching hers at all, but he knows the look on her face. "Dreamt it," she murmurs. "Okay. We'll look that one up too."

For a moment he just stares at her. He wants to hug her right now, badly, because she just takes it in like _oh, that has a perfectly logical explanation, I'm sure_, not even suggesting that maybe he's just having nightmares and looking too far into them; no, she nods as if everything makes sense and she's just jotting notes through it all, learning something new, perfectly valid…

He doesn't even know what he's thinking anymore. He's just so glad she doesn't think he's crazy. He spent the past ten minutes thinking he was crazy.

She puts a hand on his right shoulder; he doesn't think she understands what's going through his head right now, but he doesn't want her to. She'll worry, and he doesn't need that now; he just wants to feel her fingers on his shoulder and pretend that's all that's happening—there's no earthquake, Skulker's island is still there, and who said anything about being a ghost king, anyway?

But even though he's half-asleep, he's not stupid, so he shrugs her hand off and says: "I'm not going to get out of this one, huh?"

"Don't think like that." It's an instinctual response: strong, sure, and determined enough to contrast with his quiet tone. But then her gaze softens and her fingers leave the CDs and start pulling at the rug. "We don't know yet. Do you want to look it up? It's bothering you too much." She nods, mostly to herself. Stands up and offers him a hand. "C'mon, we're going to look it up."

He takes her hand but only uses it to pull her back down. If she didn't want to, she wouldn't let him—he may be stronger but she's far more stubborn—so when she lands on her knees he feels comforted. That's what she's trying to do, isn't it? Comfort him, whether it's barging into Skulk and Lurk for clues at 5am, or sitting on the rug and staring at CD cases.

So that's what they do. They mess up the order, totally in silence, rearrange them by color. Put them back alphabetically. Rub dust off them because they haven't done this since fourth grade. She hums to some of the songs she remembers, and he listens because it's something to think about. Something _nice_ to think about—and he knows very well how lacking he is in that department lately.

She keeps humming and it starts to lull him to sleep—he notices because he messes up the M CDs with N ones. After a while, his head finds its way to a cushion, right there on the rug, and he just stares at the way she rearranges CDs and hums old tunes he doesn't recognize. He starts to fall asleep and realizes that he doesn't give her enough credit, because she probably planned this, somehow, considering that she _did _tell Jazz she'd take care of it. Take care of _him_.

His eyes close and he feels her fingers through his hair and can't help but think how different this is from times when she looks for bumps and bruises with trembling fingertips. "You have us," she mumbles, probably thinking him asleep. He doesn't want to fall asleep because this is one of those happy places he likes to record and stow away.

But she doesn't know that, and she keeps talking while her fingers leave his hair and reach for what sounds like another cushion. "No matter what happens," she goes on, yawning, and he suddenly feels so guilty over keeping her up like this that it almost jolts him awake, "you've got me."

He stays still, hears her shift into her cushion. Her breathing evens out a minute later, and he stares at CDs and the back of her head until his eyes close again and his chest starts rising and falling in sync with hers.

* * *

This time he wakes up to a kick to his shin, and the only reason he doesn't get mad at Tucker for it is because he'll take that wake-up call anytime over dreaming of Skulker's island turned to rubble.

"Sorry, dude," Tucker says. "Sam said you should wake up now that Jazz is here."

He nods. He's stiff from sleeping on the floor but he didn't dream a thing so he doesn't care if his back is angry over it.

"We haven't told her anything, just that you guys have to talk," Tucker continues. "You get to stay and talk things out with Jazz while Sam and I go to Skulk and Lurk. We're going to look up some of the stuff we talked about last night."

He nods again, and then reconsiders his answer. He adds: "Thanks."

It's a pathetic, sleep-ridden _thanks_, a mere afterthought, but Tucker gets it. In return, there's a pat on his left shoulder and absolute silence while they walk the remaining two steps into the kitchen.

Jazz and Sam are seated at the table, and whatever conversation they were having is cut short by their entrance. Jazz speaks up first. "Sam says you were watching the news last night." She sips lemonade in that authoritative way only a big sister can pull off. "The news, Danny? At five am, after a nightmare?"

He keeps quiet but takes a seat.

"This," Tucker blurts, "is the part where we make an exit. See ya!"

He pulls on Sam's arm and a few seconds later the front door slams shut.

"So," Jazz says, nails ticking against the tabletop, then coming to a halt. "Talk."

Her words sound so much like Sam, the feeling of déjà vu startles him. He figures he'd best just dive into it, so he does. "About that lasagna I spit out yesterday…"

He starts explaining and at some point he's just reliving everything in his head, not really conscious of how he's narrating it all to Jazz . She, in turn, keeps quiet and doesn't give much away, but sometimes he notices the curling and uncurling of her fingers or the pursing of her lips every now and then. He pauses at some points—not to give her room to ask questions, but just to let her nod and assimilate.

Talking with Jazz about this stuff is different from talking with Sam and Tucker. While they're all about what's next and make sure you didn't miss any details, Jazz doesn't care about any of that. She wants to know what he's feeling and what he thinks, and besides being anything _but _time efficient, it is a thousand times more frustrating because sometimes he just _doesn't know_.

Like now.

"I'm drawing up a blank, to be honest," he finishes, nearly forty minutes later. "It's just… I can't even picture it. I've got nothing."

He closes off with that and slouches in his chair. Then he waits.

She doesn't take the full five minutes Tucker took last night, but the faraway look in her eyes and the steady tapping of her nails on the table is just as stressful. "Well," she starts. "That's a whole other level of _problem_, but nothing we can't conquer. What's next?"

He blinks. Shouldn't she go all psychologist on him right about now? "Umm…"

She nods. "Okay, _think up a plan _goes to the checklist."

He keeps blinking.

"What?" She sighs. "Look, I'm in shock, I have tons of questions, but I'll leave those for later—I'll even write them down and give you time to think over the answers if you want. And I obviously want to find some way to tell you everything is going to be alright but that's just not practical right now. Also, I think your explanation barely scratched the surface of how you're feeling but I'm not going to push it.

"I'd love to think you told me all this for my personal benefit—and I'm flattered because that's probably part of the reason." She sits up straighter. "But you obviously told me for a bigger motive, so—I'm in the know, now. What do you need?"

His sister rocks.

"Glad you asked," another voice chimes in, startling them both. Sam, the resident specialist on opening a door soundlessly, steps into the room with a book tucked under her arm. Tucker, beside her, carries another. "We've got work to do."

They sit down at the table as well, and Sam flips the book open. Straight to the point, she says: "First up is that important guy—Scepter. Well, he was a ghost."

The change in topic feels abrupt but he welcomes the distraction. He just poured his innermost thoughts into a vial for later examination, and he's reeling from it. "Gee, how did I not figure that one—hey, wait. _Was_?"

She nods. She looks excited, the way she does when she figures stuff like this out. "_Exactly_. Jazz was talking to us earlier about her theory on how ghosts might not be dead people, and she's right."

He looks at his sister. "She is?"

"I am?"

"Of course she is!" Tucker says. "She's smart like that, _and _this book here just proved it. Scepter was the first ghost king, and his obsession was his throne. Pariah Dark majorly stabbed him and Iris—Scepter's wife—in the back and took the throne. Boom! Scepter died. Well, the technically correct term is _faded_, but the point is that, yeah, ghosts aren't dead. They don't call themselves _alive_, though, just that they kind of _are_.But they're alive until they're dead, just like us."

"Pariah Dark was actually their best bud in a really messed up way," Sam says, waving off Danny's look of absolute _I-don't-get-it_. "His name at the time was just Dark, and Iris was a backstabbing bitch that _loved _the dark-and-mysterious look. She was cheating on Scepter with him"—she scrunches up her nose—"because she felt Scepter only loved her for her powers."

Tucker interrupts: "Iris could _see _stuff. Not the future, just the present, but she was a brilliant Peeping Tom of sorts that could see anything she was looking for without actually knowing it was there. She thought of apples and her power zoomed in on the nearest orchard—that sort of thing. She helped Scepter find rebels and quell discontent. Super useful," Tucker says.

Sam snorts. "_Super_-_creepy_. She could look in on _anything_. Her obsession was her ego, her usefulness. As in, she resented her husband for using her power, but she couldn't actually exist without it being in use. Hypocrite."

Tucker rolls his eyes. "She's been at it all day, ignore that. So Iris started seeing Dark because she wasn't happy with her husband. She was a really smart woman—Scepter, although a genius on his own, never noticed anything odd about her. And Dark worked for him as head of the army—he was right under his nose—but no one ever suspected a thing from him either.

"He was the real mastermind of the whole thing, because in the end all he had to do was slip out of Iris's bed one night, creep into Scepter's study, stab him in the back—literally—and grab the crown. When Iris woke up from a nightmare about the whole thing, her husband had faded because someone else took his crown, her heart was broken because that someone had been Dark, and she was starting to fade too, because her power had been inhibited for months and it cracked at the last minute—hence the nightmare."

"She'd inhibited her power because of her feelings for Dark. She hadn't seen past what she wanted to see of him." Sam shudders. "So you see why I do not like this girl at all."

Tucker doesn't add anything else now, and Sam looks like she wants to say more but is trying hard not to. Jazz blinks but says nothing.

Danny clears his throat because the silence is making him uncomfortable, though he doesn't understand why. "That was… umm… Okay, so ghosts can _fade_?"

Bit by bit, he tells himself. Process the rest of the story later. Bit by bit.

His words seem to work like a trigger because Jazz suddenly jumps in. "Where did you read that?" She grabs Sam's book, flipping through the pages, stopping and returning to the table of contents. Then she gets this look in her eye and carefully sets the book on the table. "Her feelings interfered with her powers, you said? Ghost psychology can't be that different from humans' if it can interfere with their biology, whatever that looks like, by inhibiting natural responses. That's… that's…"

"There's actually a lot of information on that in this one," Tucker says, handing his book to Jazz. "Psychology was a huge deal to ghosts far before it was to humans, but they don't study it quite like we do. It has a lot to do with their powers." He shrugs. "Studies got interrupted in the Ghost Zone after Pariah took over, which kind of sucks for you, but… it's what it is. I think you'll understand it far better than I did, anyway, and it's interesting."

Danny notices the way Tucker said all that kind of rushed, hand rubbing at the back of his neck, nervous grin plastered on his face. He'd worry about that if he had enough space in his head for it, but he just pushes it aside. Anyway, it's not like Jazz…

"Thanks," she says, blushing.

Oh, _c'mon_, cut him some slack.

Sam seems to know where his train of thought is going. "Ghost psychology one-oh-one will have to wait, though, as will the tech specs of your theory, Jazz. In part, Scepter's story is useful for your theory, but we found it really important for some other stuff." She gently takes her book back from Jazz, who nods along but keeps her gaze on Tucker's book. "There are tons of details here about the time when Scepter ruled. _How _he did it. How Iris helped."

Tucker rolls his eyes. "Iris was more than _help_. Despite her flaws, she knew strategy, and though her husband was cold, she knew how to sweet-talk the people. She made Scepter's life—if you want to call it that—so much easier than it should've been, given the historical context. You'll see what I mean." Tucker pauses. "In fact, get this—she even shared his powers so that they wouldn't take over him."

This is the first detail that genuinely catches Danny's attention. "What?"

Tucker grins. "It's awesome. Iris wore the ring and Scepter wore the crown. Shared power meant neither could fully take over, and neither became possessed by it the way Pariah did—there's more about that in further chapters, but we haven't checked that part yet." He pauses, sort of hesitates, before adding: "We're going to focus on Scepter's story right now, see what you might be in for." Then he tries to shrug that statement off, as if it doesn't have a gazillion implications behind it. "In the meantime, you should really consider getting a girlfriend. Having someone share that power with you could mean a world of difference."

They all go sort of quiet, probably as Tucker intended, and even though every one of them is thinking about implications, it's not the dangerous ones anymore.

Jazz looks like she wants to snort or grin; Danny mimics her, chuckling lightly. He tries to shrug it off the way Tucker did… "Oh, yeah. Let's just find some girl out there that's totally okay with taking over the Ghost Zone and wearing a ring that may or may not drive her nuts. I mean, being afraid of ghosts is so yesterday and every female out there is _dying_ to interact with them up and close." That was a terrible pun and he's starting to rant and he thinks it's because Sam is watching him very intently but _damn it_ he can't stop talking. "I could ask Valerie—she'd totally get a kick out of it. Or maybe she'd take the chance and shoot me outright—that'd be one way to end all our problems."

He really should have stopped talking.

There's silence and then Sam's knuckles crack and it's a little hard to miss it because _everyone is quiet._

He knows he shouldn't have said that for a variety of reasons, starting with how Valerie is a sore spot for everyone in this room—himself included—and ending with the fact that _c'mon, it's Valerie_. But in his head it kind of sounded funny and… _damn, Sam looks angry._

Jazz cuts in because if the silence stretches any longer, someone is going to blow. "Let's just leave that plan on the checklist. You can find a girlfriend later; right now we're starting with the basics."

Danny nods because he's really scared he'll mess up further if he opens his mouth, and for the next several hours he doesn't complain as he learns Ghost History with Tucker. Sam and Jazz are doing research on the Pariah Dark era and the terms on the transfer of power in the living room.

He doesn't comment on that and instead analyzes Iris's strategies and Scepter's policies. He finds out that the Ghost Zone used to be split up into even and neat divisions, how it used to resemble a mix between feudal and capitalist organization. He cannot stop thinking about how much he'll have to grovel to make up for his slip.

He's genuinely interested in what Tucker's saying because ghosts are just so _different_,but at the same time he's miles away, and every time Tucker notices him drifting off he snaps his fingers in front of his face to bring him back to reality, but that only makes it worse because, in his head, he instead hears Sam's knuckles crack over and over again.

* * *

It's three in the afternoon and he's cranky but Jazz is ecstatic so that's got to count for something. They were in the middle of essentially _everything _but their parents will be home soon and they'd rather not have to explain anything.

They've been doing this a lot lately—avoiding the little white lies (oh, I left a notebook at Tucker's—tripped on something or other when walking back, it's just a scrape). They just pile up and multiply, so they've concluded it's just better this way, if slightly inconvenient at times.

So now they walk home with half-answered questions fresh on their minds, and not three minutes have passed since they closed the door when a taxi honks from behind.

A collective groan. "Go hide the books," Danny says, plopping in front of the TV like the teenager he's about to pretend to be. "I'll distract them."

Jazz nods and runs up the stairs. They have a stash of ghost stuff in the Ops Center; it's not the most convenient place, and most of their stuff is at Sam's, actually, but whatever has to be here goes straight up.

The door opens and he's not up for the energetic greeting ("Hi sweetie!") but he finds some comfort in the normalcy of it all. Jazz runs down the stairs a moment later and for a few minutes they're just another family.

Then Dad starts. "The convention was _fantastic_. The real highlight was, of course, this baby right here"—he pulls out a device that looks unusually unfriendly for something Dad made—"courtesy of the effort of fifteen of the most brilliant minds at the place."

Danny can't believe there were more than five people at said place.

"Look at it shine," Dad says, eyes gleaming. "We call it the ecto-Destructor—one shot from this —and—boom! You've got a whole lot of ecto-goo conveniently captured in this little chamber." He gestures to the side of the weapon, where a glass cylinder shines tauntingly in the living room light.

"It uses electricity," Mom says, "because ectoplasm is a _fantastic_ conductor. Once the electricity reaches any ghost's core, the reaction makes it meld with some special chemicals we added in for fun. And—as your father puts it—boom! No more ghost." She pauses. "Well, for a while anyway. They'll regenerate after several weeks, at least a month. Still some things to tinker with there."

Danny adds this one to the don't-touch-it list. "That's… nice."

Jazz elbows him. "Well, we're glad you had a nice time, guys. We're sure you guys need to unpack, maybe get some rest, so we'll just leave you to…"

"Wait! That's not all!" Dad says, still excited. He fiddles with the ecto-Destructor for a minute until he finds a switch, flicks it, and the whole thing starts to glow blue as it powers up. He clicks another button, and a small compartment opens. "It dispatches fudge!"

Danny accepts some fudge. He read somewhere that chocolate makes you happy, and he needs some of that right about now. "Thanks, Dad. Glad you guys are back. We'll just leave you to unpack your things and… go work on that tinkering right now!"

"Great idea! We still have everything fresh in mind," Mom says. "Alright, kids, we'll be down in the lab if you need anything."

He nods and everything is fine except for the fact that he still has to brave the stairs before he reaches his bed. He's halfway there and then things turn _not-_fine-at-all, when his mom squeaks in surprise. "Jack, look! The ecto-Destructor found a ghost in the house!"

Danny and Jazz freeze. "It… detects ghosts?" Jazz asks.

Mom grins. "Blows them up for you, even! If you're within a fifty-meter radius and no obstacles thicker than a standard brick wall are in the way. Look at it go!"

Oh, he's looking at it alright as it locks a bright red laser onto him, shuddering in Dad's arms as it tries to rotate into position. Surprised, Dad drops it. ("Jack! Be careful!")

It starts to charge up. "Turn it off!" Jazz yells. "It must be malfunctioning! Turn it off!"

Mom and Dad are engrossed in the device, looking for the ghost. "Kids, get back! This good-for-nothing specter is about to get blown to pieces!"

"And then dissected and analyzed molecule by molecule!" Jack adds.

He hears Jazz's breath hitch. The thing is starting to glow red. He doesn't know what to do. Brick wall, brick wall… Damn it. His house is made of wood.

He's thinking about making a run for it—he'll just say that he freaked over the notion of having a ghost in house or something later—but then Jazz steps in. Literally.

As she stomps on the thing, not only does she at last capture Mom and Dad's attention, but she also realizes that it's ballerina-flats-proof. She only manages to stomp on it twice, really, before triggering a series of reactions that started with…

"Jazz!"

Both he and Mom said it, and not a moment too soon, because the thing is about to blow and Jazz jumps off it and stands, arms outstretched, right in front of him. She turns her head aside with her eyes squeezed shut and he knows from the brief tremble in her fingertips that she's scared.

Jazz is scared and she's standing right in front of him and that thing is about to shoot straight at them. Jazz isn't the equivalent of a brick wall. He has no idea what the ecto-Destructor will do to a human but he never finds out.

He does it unconsciously and it sucks because once it's done and his hand steams with ectoplasmic residue and that stupid weapon is blown to pieces, he has to take a minute to process what that all means.

But that's nothing. By the time he's got his facts straight, his parents are still staring.

* * *

**A/N:**

And... phew! That was a long one. I very seriously considered cutting the last scene, because that wasn't supposed to go there at all, but in the end I couldn't see it go anywhere else. What did you guys think, though? Was the length just too much or is it okay if I go over the usual 4-5K length more often?

A HUGE thank-you to every lovely person out there that crowded my inbox with reviews, favorites, alerts... thank-you very much! This chapter was tough but I had motivation so all went well :)

So. Comments? Questions? What-the-hecks? I really hope you enjoyed this one... it certainly took a lot more effort than the previous two.

Happy Phanniemay, see you next week!

—Rose.

P.S.: When Danny's watching the news, he mentions a melting ice sheet. That's a real, happening-right-now sort of thing, and we need to spread the word because enough is _enough_. Check out this ( ZboZKy1Fo4FcN) post-without spaces-to learn more!


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything Nickelodeon owns.

**Claimer: **This story is mine, though. I'm the one thinking it up and writing it down.

* * *

**Chapter Four**  
Family with Cujo

_2013.20—Cujo_

___2013.23—Family_

* * *

"Danny?"

That's Dad. Dad spoke up first.

He's still holding his hand out, as if he hasn't already blown the weapon to bits, as if there's something else he has to protect unmoving Jazz from. As if he still has to protect himself.

He suddenly feels very stiff. His limbs are made of rough cotton, draped in heavy canvas cloth that threatens on weighing him down. Because he can't feel a thing, he only notices the shaking because his outstretched hand is trembling. Like that earthquake off the coast of Argentina.

Earthquake. Skulker's island. Buildings crumbling to the ground. Crumbling—the Ghost Zone. Him. He's a ghost.

He's a ghost and thirty seconds ago his parents hadn't a clue.

But now they're going to suspect and investigate and they'll figure it out. They'll figure it out and it's time to bid _adieu _to three years of stealth and secrecy, three years of hearing molecule-by-molecule and knowing it was meant for him but not really.

Now it's really meant for him.

Him. That ghost kid on TV. That C-student, otherwise perfectly average guy. The lying kid that got busted because his parents finally got someone else to look over their weapon, someone that made sure it left the prototype phase before going on a test run.

His hand is still trembling but Jazz is no longer standing immobile in front of him. Instead, she's wincing, telling Mom to calm down, to take a step back just in case because he's probably reliving the whole thing in his head and it might trigger another blast. No Dad, she's saying, please wait, Daddy, because he needs to snap out of it on his own.

Is he reliving it? No. No, he's not stuck on what just happened, not in the past. He's looking at the future, and it's littered with accusing and disappointed looks, scalpels, tests, the words _you're-not-my-son _echoing all around it like a cold, titanium-hard tarp that isn't letting anything slip in or out.

It's cold in that place, surrounded by bad things to come and four bleak metal walls, and that's odd because he's never cold. But even though his whole body is numb, there's cold slowly oozing through his veins, bothering him the way it never does, and his hand is still trembling and he's seeing so many dark spots that he eventually doesn't see anything at all.

He crumbles to the floor, just like that island off the coast of Argentina, and his mother's voice sounds just like that frantic reporter's when she calls out his name.

* * *

He wakes up to the smell of alcohol and he suddenly misses Tucker's sad excuse for a wake-up call.

"Danny?" That's Jazz.

He mumbles: "I'm up." Feels around for his surroundings. He's on the couch, uncomfortable, so he sits up. As his eyes try to focus, he realizes that this isn't one of those times when he remembers nothing of whatever happened before he fell asleep.

It's almost like he didn't pass out at all, because he still feels that giant lump settled in his stomach and his hands are still shaking. He almost wants to be able to ask Jazz what the heck happened. Wants her to say nothing, you fell asleep watching a movie, no big deal, I'm just holding up an alcohol-soaked cotton ball in front of your face for the fun of it.

But that's not the question he's going to ask. "Where are Mom and Dad?"

"In the lab, rummaging through old archives" Jazz says, throwing the cotton ball into the trash can. "I only mentioned the accident, I swear. They're looking it up now—trying to find everything they missed."

He nods. Stays quiet.

"I don't want to push you," she continues. "You're too stressed, you're weak, undernourished... You have too much on your shoulders and it all piled up in a matter of days. I get that. I just saw you pass out from all that."

He doesn't know if he should feel offended—she _did _just essentially call him a weakling—but he's not. So he nods because she's quiet now and he knows where she's going with this. "But you want me to take the risk and tell them anyway."

She frowns. "I'd hardly call it a risk. You've done this before—you altered the time stream or something, yes, but that doesn't change the fact that they accepted you for about ten minutes before you wiped their memories."

"That was three years ago."

"They're still your parents!" Jazz sighs. "Our parents. We love our parents, right? And they love us."

"They don't love ghosts."

"And yet they've dedicated their lives to them." She pauses. "You and I know that they don't know a thing about ghosts. Not the way we do." She does that sister thing—pushes his chin up with one finger to make him face her. "Teach them."

* * *

Jazz is standing at the edge of the lab, close to the weapons closet. It shouldn't comfort him that she's guarding it, but it does. Mom and Dad are standing in front of the portal while he explains the facts. Just facts.

"Sam knows the correct position of the dials," he says, "but I don't really know what else she might've pressed. Never asked."

He explains everything, every little detail, the way he did when describing the accident to his parents when he was fourteen. Word for word, just the way he explained it to them until…

"I passed out, remember? Sam and Tucker dragged me to my room, that was it, but when I woke up things were different. The effect was immediate, I think. It just… drained me. And I didn't notice until the next day."

He pauses. How can he explain what's next? He sees Jazz nodding along: _Go _on, she's saying. He looks away and sees the corkboard on the wall, covered in newspaper clippings of Inviso-Bill sightings, battles, quotes. Notes and post-its. Theoretical explanations of why this weapon or that one should be used on him.

Him.

"So you've been able to shoot ectoplasm ever since?" his mom interjects when he goes quiet.

His eyes widen. They still don't get it—how could they? He hasn't explained the most important part yet. And maybe he doesn't have to. Maybe he can let them continue thinking this way—the effects were few, just some alterations: he can shoot ectoplasm and sometimes bleed it. That's all. His ghost sense. He might explain that one, too, just for the heck of it, and that's it.

That could be it.

But Jazz, all the way from her spot at the end of the room, is shaking her head. _No_, she's saying. _Three years is enough_.

Sam once promised him that if his parents _did _turn on him once they found out, she'd let him live in her basement. It's a childish form of comfort but the thought does propel him forward, makes him a little braver when he speaks up… "No, Mom. It's bigger than that."

She nods. "If you were in there when the portal first charged… the shock must have been abnormally strong, sweetie. I think it should have… killed you."

He's scared out of his wits. "I don't think it did, Mom, but you might not agree."

She furrows her brow, and then Dad cuts in: "I feel as if I'm missing something."

"I'm getting there." Is he? "It's just… I just… look, that portal shocked me three ways to Friday, and it sucked, okay? It sucked really badly." Oh, no. No. This feels just like the Valerie slip from earlier. "I mean, my eyes and hair changed color and for a minute I thought I didn't have legs anymore, and I got this feeling in my mouth every time a ghost showed up and you guys _know_ how much I hate breath mints"—he's trying to stop because this blabbering is ridiculous but he just can't—"and then there was that time when Tucker snuck up on me and I landed in the basement before I realized what had happened and I… I…"

Well, he stopped it.

"I'm so sorry."

Hesitant, reluctant, he does it the way he's always imagined it, because he never—not once, in three years of picturing this scenario—found the right words for it. Sam is a words kind of person. He's just not. He feels that cold sensation, odd but not unpleasant, slip through his muscles and doesn't once look away from their eyes no matter how badly he wants to. He almost sees his reflection in their pupils—white hair standing out among the black, vibrant green eyes looking straight into theirs.

His dad's eyes widen but his mom's don't do a thing. No blinking. No widening. At least they didn't shrink into slits—that's one variation of the nightmare he can scratch off.

Jazz must think he's suffered enough because she finally steps in. "Don't panic—he's not dead. I've got a theory on that."

He gives her a look because—really, Jazz?

She looks back. _Yes, really._

Mom and Dad are still staring, and he's worried that it'll become the norm. They're taking him in, probably comparing him to every newscast they've cursed, trying to associate the framed photograph on their desk with the WANTED posters taped to the wall.

There's so much silence.

He doesn't want to say anything else—he wants them to speak. Wants to hear them say it. _Get out_. Go ahead, say it. _What are you. _Ask it.

Scream. Whisper. Cry. _Anything_.

His dad is still staring, but Mom's gaze suddenly darts to the corkboard. Then back to him. To the picture of the four of them on her desk. Back to him. Looks at Jazz. At the portal. Him.

"I took a creative writing class in high school," Dad suddenly says. He sounds so normal. Why does he sound so normal? "Needed some credits. If I recall anything—which I don't think I do, hated that class—I think this is called a plot twist."

He just nods, only once, because he's really scared he'll blow it if he so much as blinks wrong.

"Well, those were the only part of the class I actually liked," Dad continues. "And you're the best plot twist I've ever seen, son!"

Even Jazz looks confused. He worries for a minute that she'll panic because Dad isn't falling into his routine pattern of behavior. He really doesn't need that on top of everything else.

Dad nods to himself. "Yes, well, I think a conversation is in order," he says, standing. "What do you intellectual people call it, Jazzypants?"

Jazz looks startled. "To debate? Dialogue? Discuss?"

Eyes turn to look at Mom. She's looking down at her hands, which are settled palms-up on her lap. "All this time…" he hears her, barely, because it doesn't even qualify as a whisper.

No one speaks.

Mom nods. Swallows hard in a way she never does—not in front of them. Her lips are set in a firm line but her eyebrows are creased in concern and her eyes refuse to meet his. "A conversation sounds nice."

* * *

"It was weird," he tells Tucker and Sam two hours later on the phone. "Awkward."

_Painful._

His conversation with his parents didn't even come close to his worst nightmares or biggest hopes. They were so _quiet_ through the most of it (even Dad, and that's saying a lot). They didn't point any fingers, though. They didn't hug him either.

He finally took the opportunity to clear his name of all the times he'd been framed (the media didn't always believe him, so his parents obviously didn't either). He even explained the alternate timelines where they found out.

He didn't say a word about his current predicament, though. There was still a sliver of hope in him, crying that he'd find someone else for the job, some loophole, _something_ to get him out of it. He also didn't want to give them another reason to side against him.

Jazz was amazing. In times of stress, logic appeals best to his mother, who was the really difficult one between her and Dad. Jazz filled in the blanks he left in his explanations, added in real, concrete data.

Tucker is saying something on the other end of the line, but he didn't catch the first part of it. "—less to worry about, though."

"Huh? Oh, yeah. I guess." He shrugs to himself. "Maybe."

"Everything will be fine," Sam says confidently. "They're your parents, and you've been through this one before. _But_ if you find any bumps in the road in the meantime, the basement is always an option."

She's trying to cheer him up with humor, but it's just not that easy. "Thanks," he says anyway. "Duly noted."

"So now you just have to wait? See what they do?"

"Yeah." That part bothers him a lot. "I'm trying hard not to panic."

What if they decide he's lying? Or that he and Jazz are overshadowed? Or that he's not really their son if he's dead—which Jazz insists he isn't—and lost for good? They might shoot him in his sleep… or dissect him… or shove him into a thermos forever.

"They didn't kick you out, though," Tucker adds. "Isn't that a good sign?"

"I guess."

More silence. Then: "You need a distraction," Sam says. "Can you come over? Both of you? I've been looking for anything that could help Danny transfer the power to some other ghost. Supposing I find something, we'll need candidates."

"I'll be there in a minute," Tucker says.

He keeps quiet. What kind of a distraction is that? He can go, that's fine, but does he want to? No, not really. He wants to play Doom or do some equally mind-numbing task that will take his train of thought far away from the word _ghost_.

But he goes. He tells Jazz, just in case, but carefully avoids his parents' room. At Sam's, she explains what little she has found—formal challenge, basic form of defeat, public recognition of said defeat… It's kind of mind-boggling that he complied with all the requirements on accident. Dumb luck. _Bad _dumb luck.

When they start going through lists of the ghosts they know, pointing out pros and cons, he realizes that the same concept applies to them all. He's not going to put any of them through this the way he won't put Dora through it—it's another level of cruel! And maybe there's a ghost like Vlad out there that might jump at the opportunity, but probably at the expense of everyone else. He won't let that happen.

Spending an eternity chained to two objects that may drive you insane? To a position that'll demand your attention and energy forever? There's a chance he'll only live through this for a few decades, a chance he'll die like the human he is. If Jazz's theory is right, he won't be a ghost after he dies.

He'll have to figure something out once he's old and approaching the grave, true. But he won't forgive himself if he condemns someone else now while knowing it was well in his hands to prevent it. This is _his_ burden for now; he won't let it be someone else's forever.

* * *

Clockwork says it's entirely up to him and his decisions—yes, it's possible that he'll die like any other human. It's equally possible that he won't. Schrodinger's cat, he calls it.

Now he's just thinking about that, wondering if he can still slip away from here the way he came, quietly and without anyone noticing. Maybe, if he could take more time to think, ask Sam and Jazz and Tucker, ask his parents, say he's sorry in advance… He's scared because it's an _equal_ probability. Relieved, too.

Turning back looks like a bad idea, though, because Clockwork has his arms crossed as is. He's not being any bit compassionate, not the way he kind of was the day he broke the news. Now it's all hard stares and it's making his shoulders tense and his legs wobble, because saying all this aloud is difficult enough without that smartass eyebrow raised at him.

"Look, I've made my choice," he says, trying to control the tremble in his voice that clearly says otherwise. "Don't make me think too hard about it because I might regret it. I already _am _regretting it. Just… tell me what comes next."

Clockwork watches him for a minute. Scrutinizes. Analyzes.

It makes him incredibly uncomfortable, but he doesn't let his gaze drift away, doesn't let the strength of his posture waver (he's scared he'll pass out again if he doesn't concentrate on standing upright).

"Alright," Clockwork says. "Now we have a visit to pay."

There's a tap on his shoulder and suddenly he's not surrounded by _tic-toc-tic-toc_ and portals anymore. His first thought slips out on accident: "Ghost Writer's lair?"

He feels like a little kid, with the grownups standing to his side, talking, no longer paying attention to him because he's a little kid that doesn't understand grownup matters. This type of indirect condescension has always bothered him, and now that he's been on the receiving end of it for ten minutes, it's grating on his nerves.

"A section that explains _why _all this is happening," Clockwork is saying. "The relation with the chaos around the Ghost Zone."

"Hm, yes," Ghost Writer says, taking notes. "Show them what sort of benefit they'll get from the hassle. I understand."

It's a newsletter of sorts, what they're discussing. That's apparently the best way to tell everyone that from now on they'll have to obey a half-human seventeen-year-old that hasn't graduated high school (and probably won't with a stellar GPA). Oh, and they're invited to watch him throw his life away (perhaps literally) in two days.

Two.

Ghost Writer suddenly takes a very keen interest in him, and his intent gaze is disturbingly familiar because _everyone—keeps_—_staring_ lately. He suddenly prefers the condescension.

"Sounds like your world just got turned upside-down."

He can't come up with something witty to retort with. So he nods.

There's pity in that gaze, and that's really bothersome, too. "Can't say you'd be my first pick, but we're probably better off with you than with, say, that Vlad character."

He has no idea why that mediocre vote of confidence comforts him, but it does. A little.

He nods again, and is about to say something like "_gee, thanks_"—but then he's on the floor, nearly cracking his skull on it, holding something weightless but still tangible on his chest. Its breath reeks.

Groaning, he sits up to face Cujo. "Hey," he greets, kind of smiling. "How'd you find me here?"

He receives a bark in response, and he finds it strangely appropriate. _Yeah, I don't really know how to answer questions these days, either._

He looks at Cujo. It's been a while since he last saw him, and though it's dumb of him to expect a ghost dog to look older, he studies him intently. A ghost dog. Aren't dogs supposed to be man's best friend? Does that translate to ghosts?

"Guess I'll need a friend around these parts now, huh?" He picks Cujo up. "I'll be spending lots of time here, it seems. Wanna come with me?"

Another bark. It's good enough an answer for him, and he always wanted a puppy—plus, this one won't leave hair around the house like Mom feared—so that seals it.

Clockwork and Ghost Writer have long since stopped paying attention to him, again, but now he's sort of grateful that Clockwork is managing some stuff for him. He scratches Cujo behind the ears and keeps listening. He suddenly wonders if there's any way he'll be able to convince Ghost Writer to lay off the rhymes for the newsletter.

* * *

It's long past midnight when he gets home, so Dad's snoring reverberates around the halls. Mom is in the kitchen, holding a cup of coffee, staring down at the table. Cujo's keeping his mouth shut, thankfully, and seeing as he phased through the floor and is still invisible, Mom hasn't noticed him. Plus, it's cold as is in the house, thanks to summertime air-conditioning, so she's too distracted to notice the drop in temperature that accompanies him.

Even though the circumstances are perfect for him to slip away undetected, for a moment he considers stepping inside, sitting with her in silence for a while. Maybe they can talk.

It might be a cowardly thing and he may regret this later, but he chooses to look away and hover back to his room soundlessly, because he's emotionally exhausted and can't take another conversation for the day.

* * *

His dream revolves around his parents—they're mad because they specifically prohibited _dogs_, dead or alive, ectoplasmic or not. Their anger is making the house shake—because it's a dream, you see—and when the walls crumble he sees the Ghost Zone rather than his street.

He can't really hear them yelling, actually, he just _understands _that they're mad because of this and that, the way you just _know _stuff when you're dreaming. What he does hear, though, is the phrase _two days _over and over again, varying between Clockwork's pestering tone, Vlad's sneer, Pariah's mocking chuckle.

Somehow, he's also aware of Sam and Tucker floating around, unconscious, in the background. So is the Box Ghost, for some reason. Cujo is making a run for it, in and out of portals that always take him back to the starting point. That reporter from the earthquake is running in circles around the little expanse of land he's standing on.

His parents are growing taller and taller and taller, imposing and scary the way parents sometimes are even though they shouldn't be, and they're still mad. Mad because he took a dog home. Mad because he kept secrets. Mad because he's dead.

Then Jazz appears insisting that _he's not_, and he really desperately wants to believe her because, if this really is what half-death looks like, he's not looking forward to the full thing at all.

Which, by the look of that enemy ghost army on the horizon, may be rushing toward him much faster than he thought.

* * *

**A/N:**

Hello! This chapter was fun to write, considering the last one was tough on my nerves. What did you think? Hit or miss? I'm so excited for next week's chapter-I'm halfway through the first draft of it, and I think (hope!) you guys will love it. (*Hint: Sam explodes.*)

As for this chapter: I gave it a very fragmented format on purpose—I think that's what Danny's train of thought looks like right now. So there were lots of little scenes, but substantial enough, I think, to keep them from being awkward. You tell me, though!

Speaking of which, thank-you very much for all the wonderful reviews! And thank-you to everyone that jams my inbox with favorites and alerts!

I hope you enjoyed this one! Happy Phanniemay, see you next week!

—Rose.

P.S. One reviewer mentioned that the earthquake was in Peru, not Argentina—which I am aware of. I made this one up, rather than using the real data, just to make sure I didn't offend anyone. Sorry if there was any confusion!


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything Nickelodeon owns.

**Claimer: **This story is mine, though. I'm the one thinking it up and writing it down.

* * *

**Chapter Five**  
Dad

_2014.24—Jack_

* * *

It's ten am, an hour after the most awkward family breakfast he has experienced—it entailed introducing his parents to Cujo. He called up this meeting shortly after that, wanting to think of something—anything—else. He can't say he didn't get his wish, but _man_, this is going badly. All he'd meant to do was get everyone up to speed, but he supposes that _by the way, coronation's tomorrow and every ghost out there found out before you did, sorry _isn't the best way to start a conversation.

Cujo, the only member of this little getup that isn't mentally fitting him for a straitjacket, is seated on his lap. From there, he watches how Sam blinks—or doesn't, actually—while opening and closing her mouth without making a sound. Her usual reaction to most anything he does or says isn't violent, but this once her voice goes a few decibels up and her eyes bulge. Finally: "Are you _stupid_?"

The echo in the Ops Center makes that last bit sound louder than it was. It's not like he hasn't been called stupid before, but this once it sounds a little different. Guilty as he feels, though, he's _so _not up for this. "Look, I'm sorry I didn't tell you about my choice before—"

She makes this obnoxious noise—a cross between a scoff and a laugh—and it's accompanied by this incredulous look on her face that is so _not _Sam. "Oh, you're _sorry_? Well that makes a world of difference, mister—"

"Yes it does, Sam!" Her tone is getting to him. "It's not like I _have _to report my every move to you, and even so I feel bad about not having told you!"

She scoffs. "Are you hearing yourself? You didn't _have_ to, but you're considering us anyway? Oh, poor you, having to keep your concerned best friends and sister updated! All three of whom, might I add, have been working their asses off to figure out a solution for _your _problem, which _you _just made worse, on a freaking midnight stroll to seal your freaking fate in the freaking Ghost Zone!"

What is up with her? "Well you just said it—_my _problem_. _I dealt with it how I saw fit, and that's that!"

Sam's retort is cut off: "Alright, that's enough," Jazz says, her voice not necessarily loud but still strong, especially with the room's echo. "Danny, you've got some explaining to do. Sam, what's done is done, so now we have to figure out how to deal with it."

"_We_?" Sam spits, arms crossed, not looking at him in the eye. "Mr. Independent here seems to have things covered."

"And look how well that turned out," Jazz says. "He'll get our help whether he wants it or not, period. Now, you"—she turns to face him—"explain."

They've got him cornered—Jazz, angry Sam, and quiet, shocked Tucker. He looks down at Cujo—at least he's not mad. "We weren't getting anywhere," he starts, which was probably a really bad idea because Sam looks murderous. "People were getting hurt—I had to do _something_."

"We _were_ doing something!" Sam shrieks.

"Sam, quiet. Danny, elaborate. Now."

"Yesterday, I got up at five am because I dreamt Skulker's island had crumbled to bits. On the news, an island off the coast of Argentina had gone through the exact same thing. Stuff happening in the Ghost Zone parallels stuff happening here, we know that—and bad stuff like that was going to keep happening if we didn't do anything about it."

"So you did something about it," Tucker says. It's the first thing he says all morning, and the surprise makes Danny look up. "But do you honestly think _that_ somethingwas a good idea?"

"I don't know," he shrugs, "but it's what I did. Tell me: why did we decide Dora wasn't a good idea?"

"'Cause it'd be cruel." Sam nods, still not looking at him in the eye. "So, what? You suddenly decided that the same concept applied to all ghosts?"

"Doesn't it?"

"If it does, that has to include you!"

"I'm already the victim."

"You don't have to be a _martyr_! Damn it, Danny, what were you thinking?"

"I _am _thinking that maybe I won't have to do this forever. How can I condemn someone else, knowing it's in my hands to stop it? Huh, Sam? How?"

"_Maybe _it wouldn't be a burden to someone else! To the right person!"

"And while we find this person? Stuff has been happening for years now, Sam, and I can stop it! That earthquake was just a part of it—you want to see the rest? You want other people to get hurt while I cower under the pretense of _just give me a minute, looking for the right person?"_

That's it. She's mad. Idiot—why did he say that? Maybe he _is _stupid. "You _know _I don't want anyone to get hurt," she says, voice low and eyes glowering, "and that includes _you_!"

He's not sure why that pulls him out of his anger, or why that leaves him with such an incompetent reply: "I'm not going to get hurt."

Her eyebrows rise. "How would you know? _I'm _the one doing the research—you wanna know what that crown might do? It might kill you, that's what!" Her glare is steady, but he notices her hands are trembling. "Is that it, Danny? Were you serious when you said it'd be okay for Valerie to swoop in and off you? Do you—do you _want _to die?"

Sam looks like she's about to cry, and that fully sobers him. "What—God, Sam, no!"

"That's _enough_," Tucker cuts in, and they listen because it's incredibly creepy to see him emulate Jazz to perfection. "No one is going to die, Sam, no one's going to get hurt. No more accidents paralleling the Ghost Zone, check, because Danny here just took care of that. No crown is going to kill Danny, check, because we looked that up, as you very well remember. Danny is going to lay off the attitude"—Tucker raises a questioning eyebrow, but doesn't bother to wait for an answer—"check. Quit it, guys."

They keep quiet.

"Better," Jazz says. She lets the silence drag for a minute before continuing: "Danny, is there anything else? We need to get a new plan."

_We had a plan? _He keeps that one to himself. "Clockwork said the crown and ring might not keep me from aging. It's a mentality thing—so far, my human side still controls growth. If I remain as human as I am now, rather than let the power take over me, I'll age and die just like I'm supposed to."

He looks at Sam, suddenly feeling guilty for having blown up on her. Her question rings in his ears: _is that it—do you want to die? _It sounded rehearsed, as if she'd been pondering it for a while now. Had she?

"That's why I did it," he continues. "We need time to figure something out, I know, but I couldn't take the guilt of knowing people are getting hurt. And I won't drag another ghost into this mess until I'm sure it's someone that both wants and deserves this." His apology is meant for the three of them, but he's looking at Sam: "I'm sorry."

She doesn't look up at him. _Damn_. If he thought he'd have to grovel over the Valerie slip, this just made things _so _much worse.

"There," Jazz breathes. "That wasn't so hard, was it? Okay. Let's get our facts straight, and let's get to thinking."

* * *

Sam and Tucker left half an hour ago and Jazz just retreated to her room, after scolding him for being harsh on Sam. As if he needs to be told to feel bad about it.

He feels really bad about it.

She also took Cujo with her, leaving him entirely on his own to mope, but he doesn't get to. Just when he's about to get some alone time to think, he hears that damned little catch-phrase: "Time out."

He groans and slumps back into his seat. "Hello to you, too," he mumbles as Clockwork spirals into view. "Miss me so soon?"

"Don't start, it's too early for that," Clockwork says.

_Too early? _he thinks. _Says the ghost of time._ "Give me a break, I've had a rough morning—which, let me guess, you know all about because"—he tries for an imitation of his voice—"_you know everything_."

Clockwork rolls his eyes. "Regardless, I'm not here to cheer you up. Here," he hands him a piece of glowing black paper that doesn't feel quite like paper. "A memento, if you will. It's the newsletter."

_Ghost Writer is fast_. He sets the paper aside without looking at it. "Thanks, I think. Is that all?"

"Mind your manners," he warns. "No, I have some information to share. I thought you'd be pleased to know you won't have to abandon your regular human life."

He frowns. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, certainly you didn't expect your regular work hours, let's call them, to be enough for a king's work? You hardly ever visit the Ghost Zone."

He shrugs. "I figured that I'd spend ghost-hunting time in there."

"Still not enough."

He hadn't really thought this one through. Not enough? "And you say you have a solution?"

"Yes. Instead of sleeping, you'll spend nights in the Ghost Zone."

That doesn't sound very smart. "Excuse me?"

"Ghosts' biology is not complex enough to require sleep. We gain energy from other sources—take Nocturne's absorption of dreams, for example, or Desiree granting wishes, though she's a different case. So you'll split your time in half—twelve hours in ghost form will allow your human half to recharge on its own, so long as your ghost half is well-energized. You won't ever need sleep again."

Never sleep again? No more nightmares… no dreams for Nocturne to feed off of... "Is that the only solution?" he asks, though he's not quite sure why he's so hesitant. It's a good idea. He'll definitely get more out of life—normal people spend a third of their lives asleep! So why does this sound so daunting?

Clockwork looks puzzled. "It's the best one."

He nods. He'll make his peace with this idea later. "Well, thanks. I… err, appreciate that." He clears his throat. "_Exactly_ twelve hours, you said?"

"Preferably. It'll help with the concept of balance I told you about yesterday. If you start spending too much time in the Ghost Zone, you'd outbalance your human side, and vice versa."

"I spend most of my time in the human world now," he says. "How is this any different?"

"You'll have taken possession of the crown and ring. If they feel you're rejecting your ghost half, we'd still face chaos. Especially this early on—you need to learn to control them."

He doesn't like the sound of that. "Right." He curls up in his seat, facing sideways. In his head, he can hear Jazz sifting through notes in her room, jotting things down on her mini-whiteboard, probably holding her cell phone between her ear and shoulder as she talks to Tucker. On the other side of the line, he figures, Tucker is at Sam's house, and they're all talking about him.

So why does he feel so alone?

"You're not," Clockwork butts in, startling him. "You said that out loud, relax. I can't read minds. Not usually."

That doesn't comfort him one bit, but he shrugs it off. "Feels like it, though."

"You'll regret saying that." Clockwork smirks. "This brings me to the next item on the agenda—there are some people I'd like you to meet."

Wary, he watches a portal materialize in front of him, from which two ghosts step out. They look like a grandpa and a granddaughter, both wearing glasses that belong in another century, holding clipboards and pens. The old man dresses very professionally—almost too much for a man his age, he thinks—and the little girl, who looks to be around ten years old (though it's probably ten thousand or so), is wearing a bright sundress and glittery sandals.

"Hi!" the little girl says, cheery. "This is History, my grandpa. I'm Anne."

History tips his hat. "Well, don't you look spiffy," he says with a slow, croaky, old-guy voice. "This one will be interesting, won't he, munchkin?"

"He's cute," Anne answers. She suddenly morphs into a teenager, about his age, and that sundress is very… short. She's standing a little too close. "Though I've seen better," she says in a _very _different tone, smiling sweetly as she drags a bright red fingernail down his chin.

Suddenly very uncomfortable, Danny takes a step back and impulsively swats Anne's hand away. She laughs, shrinks back into a little kid. "Aw, sorry if I scared ya, mister."

History chuckles. "Easy there, munchkin. Don't want to get fired first day on the job."

That bit startles Danny. "Fired? Job?"

"Meet the Historians," Clockwork says. "They've worked to record ghost history ever since there was history to record. They're good old friends of mine." He chuckles. "Emphasis on old."

"And you assigned them to me?" Danny asks, pointedly avoiding Anne's gaze. "Hey, wait a minute. History and Anne, the Historians? Oh, wow. You guys get more creative every day."

"We _invented_ creative, child," History says.

"I didn't _assign_ them to you," Clockwork says. "But once the announcement got out, they asked to get a closer look at the first king the Ghost Zone has properly had since Scepter faded."

"And you let them?"

"He couldn't very well say no," Anne says, giggling. "We're important!"

"As are you," History says. "Which is why you caught our interest. Documenting year after year of Pariah's snoring was exhausting. Ever since you showed up three years ago, we've had plenty to do!"

"You've been watching me?"

"Of course! But mostly from our side of things—ghost history happening outside the Ghost Zone just doesn't feel quite the same. You're quite the exception, though—a halfa! I'd never thought it possible. Yes, we'll be watching you closely."

"So here we are!" Anne says. Even though she's still in her child form, her next words come out in that older, sultry voice: "And we'll be spending plenty of time together, cutie, because your mentor gave us full access to your life." Her voice switches back: "Won't that be fun?"

Danny gulps. "Isn't this an invasion of privacy?"

"Ghost ethics aren't quite like yours, child," History says. "But don't worry, we won't be too invasive. In your world, we'll respect your rules and moral standards if that's what you prefer."

Danny looks at Anne. "Yes, please."

"My work here is done, then," Clockwork says. He looks too pleased with himself, even on the receiving end of Danny's glare. Gesturing to the long-forgotten black paper, he reminds: "My lair tomorrow evening, Danny, and please be on time." He gestures to the Historians. "I'd hate for your bad habits to go down in history."

Clockwork fades into a spiral, and Danny is suddenly faced with two very intent stares. "I, uh, need to go to the bathroom," he tells them. "That's a private sort of thing around here. So, uh, yeah. Stay here."

He runs down the stairs, and once he confirms he's not being followed, he sighs. He phases through the floor and into Jazz's room. Jazz, startled, drops her phone to the floor—he knew it!—but Danny covers her mouth before she can shriek. "Shh," he whispers. "We've got a problem."

* * *

He drew the line when History and Anne tried to watch him sleep—"I'll suggest a few movies so you can get the idea of how poorly that's viewed around here"—and later realized that this was the last time in his life he'd ever get a full-night's sleep.

And that thought, in turn, has given him insomnia.

History and Anne returned to the Ghost Zone a few minutes ago—he checks anyway, and only feels confident to roam the house (like any good insomniac does) when the Fenton Ghost Detector Slash Fudge Dispenser solely detects his own ectoplasmic signature.

When he reaches the lab, he realizes why the house is so quiet—Dad, my-son's-a-ghost-kid-and-that's-an-awesome-plot-twist Dad, is tinkering, rather than snoring. What's odd is that there is no fudge in sight, no Mom. No silent mutterings about molecule-by-molecule.

Upon closer inspection, he realizes Dad isn't building a weapon—he's tearing one apart. Screw by screw, little by little. Puts the pieces back together, out of order, into shapeless, useless bits of junk.

He tries to make some noise as he steps into the lab. "Dad?"

Even with the warning steps, Dad still jumps. "Danny-boy, you scared me. It's late, you should"—Dad yawns—"get some sleep."

"Looks like you should, too," he says. "What are you doing?"

"What—me? Nothing, nothing, don't mind me." He pushes all his scraps to the far end of his desk. "Say, want some fudge? I have some…" he looks around. Peruses his pockets, his drawers, under the desk—under the desk?—and then shrugs. "Ah, I'll owe you that."

"Don't worry about it," he says, but it seems that Dad doesn't hear him, muttering _fudge _under his breath a couple times, still looking around. "Uh, Dad? Are you okay?"

"What?" Dad turns to face him abruptly. "What sort of question is that, Danny-boy? A Fenton is always A-okay!"

Danny nods, but says nothing. Dad looks fine, but he sounds anything but. He's hesitant to ask, but he figured a while ago that this conversation would be necessary. "Is this about yesterday?"

Dad pulls on a smile that says, _aw, shucks, no_—but then he stops. Sighs. "What do you want me to say, son? I'm proud of ya, don't get me wrong. You've done some good deeds, you've been through a lot. Your dad's proud to be your dad."

He can't absorb the compliment fully, feeling a _but _coming up. "But I just totally messed up your life's work and you're coping with it?" he guesses.

"Huh? No, nothing like that. You've pulled your mom and me miles ahead, more than we would've ever accomplished in a lifetime. And your sister, just like your mother, she has big ideas too." Dad sits back down, picks up the ecto-gun he'd been messing with. "Son, what kind of parent points a gun at his own kid?"

Ah. So that's where this is going.

"The kind of parent that doesn't _know_ he's trying to shoot his kid?" Danny tries. "Dad, I already told you I don't blame you for any of it."

"Yes, yes. Let's try this again. What kind of parent points a gun?"

Well, that one's easy. "A ghost-hunting parent that wants to protect his kids?"

Dad chuckles. "Maybe. Years of work, son, and I never considered an alternative to shoot, capture, and dissect. As a parent, what sort of example is that? And, as a scientist, a pioneer in his field, what does that approach say about me? About your mom?

"Pop culture, I guess, led us to believe that ghosts are dangerous. Human nature told us that the unknown is dangerous. Danger must be exterminated, right? That's all we were trying to do—keep danger at bay. But we messed up anyway, didn't we?"

How can he respond to that? "Dad, quit beating yourself up over it. I got framed enough times for you to believe I was a bad guy, and bad guys _are _dangerous. And there are plenty of bad ghosts out there. You weren't completely mistaken, just… halfway."

Dad tries to smile."Yes, well, you've been paying the price of our half-mistake, son."

"But it's my fault I never told you guys."

"And it's our fault you were scared to do so. _Molecule by molecule_," he mocks. "I'm so sorry, son, that you ever had to hear that. Identify with that." Dad's voice catches. "I'm so sorry."

Dad looks like he's about to tear up, and there's a knot in Danny's throat. "Dad, stop that. We all messed up. If you're intent on pointing fingers—look at Sam! She dared me to go in there in the first place. She has apologized for that more times than I can count, but I've never needed to hear it. I don't really regret anything that has happened, except not having told you guys sooner. It's okay. I'm fine, you're fine, and things are going to be okay."

He feels like a big fat liar when he says that last part.

Dad looks at him, eyes glinting, and hugs him. He suddenly feels very heavy in the chest—so much he's about to fall to his knees. His parents still don't know. He's less than a day away from it and his parents don't know.

And he realizes that he doesn't want them to know, wants to shield them from it. But then, that would mean keeping secrets from them, and he promised himself he'd never do that again. "Dad," he starts, stepping away. "This isn't over yet. In fact, it probably won't be. I haven't… I haven't told you guys everything. I'm sorry, I thought I'd find a way out of this but I didn't and…" he stops the ranting before it's too late, presses his lips together and tries to think of a way to put this lightly.

Dad gives him a tired smile. "Whatever it is, we'll talk about it in the morning, hmm?" He stands up, puffs out his chest. "And we'll face it as Fentons!"

He laughs. Really laughs, even though he still remembers what a jerk he was to Sam in the morning, even though he knows the Historians will be back at dawn and will probably witness the whole exchange.

He hugs his Dad one more time, randomly noticing how close they are in height now. In that little moment, he doesn't feel alone at all, and he remembers that there are people willing to help him carry any burden, even though they don't have to.

* * *

An hour after his conversation with Dad, flying over Amity, he feels stupid for not having realized this sooner. Sure, he's really worried over the upcoming family conversation. Sure, the idea of never sleeping again is probably pushing him into some sort of denial, which in turn makes him want to forgo sleep on some subconscious level.

But he's a growing teenager that needs sleep, and he knows none of that would entirely help deprive him of it. Plague him with nightmares? Duh.

Insomnia, though—that's someone else's job.

He phases into Sam's room and quickly switches back to his human form—the random temperature drops can't be healthy for her. He feels a little guiltier knowing he's about to wake her up, but their argument has been gnawing at his conscience all day.

Still, as he approaches her sleeping form, he wonders if he deserves a sleepless night wallowing in guilt. She certainly doesn't deserve to be woken up—again—at this miserable hour.

Thinking about that, he stands there for a while, gathering the guts to pull her out of her peace. He starts to feel like a creep, and that settles it. "Sam," he mumbles, shaking her shoulder lightly.

Nothing. "Sam," he repeats, a little louder. "Wake up."

She does, all at once: eyes wide open and body jerking to a sitting position. "What—what is it? What happened?"

His stomach tightens. He scared her.

"It's okay, everything's fine," he says, hand still on her shoulder.

She steadies her breathing, settling into a sitting position. She turns on her bedside lamp and blinks repeatedly from the glare. "What are you doing here?" she mumbles, sleepy and annoyed.

"Couldn't sleep," he admits.

It's not the first time he does this, so she nods. She looks concerned now. "Nightmare?"

He shakes his head. "No, I just… I wanted to apologize. I was a jerk earlier. I'm sorry. I let all this stress get to me and it's not fair to you—any of you—and you've been great about all this. This is supposed to be my problem and you've all helped and… I was a huge jerk."

She smiles. "Hey, I messed up too."

He takes a seat at the edge of her bed. "But I've been messing up all week. I've been cranky and I've taken it out on you guys."

He's wringing his hands together, a bad habit and an obvious tell, but he only realizes it when she puts her own hand on top of them. "Didn't we talk about this recently? You haven't forced me into a thing, you idiot. I choose this every day."

He asks the question he has always been hesitant to voice: "Why? What's so great about all this?"

This question has bothered him for a while now. What if his friends had never stopped to think about this? What if they randomly realize it's just not worth it and… and… he doesn't really know what he fears, but it's a question he has selfishly kept quiet until… well, now.

She ponders that. "Well, you said it yourself—we're helping people. I actually like ghost hunting, though please don't tell your Dad I said that, and I think all the science behind it is interesting. We're exploring an unexplored area." She shrugs. "You're my best friend; best friends help each other out. Why wouldn't I choose this, I guess, is the better question."

"Well, for starters, I tend to be a jerk."

She snorts. "Come off it—you can't really pull _jerk _off. I'd say whiny, on occasion. Clueless, or a little slow. Just a little."

He grins, but it fades quickly. "What are we going to do, Sam?"

"Jazz has a plan," she reminds him. "And we'll just deal with things as they come, the way we always have. All of us, together."

_You shouldn't have to, _he thinks, but he doesn't voice the thought 'cause she'll smack him if he does. "Okay, sure. That works for now. But later? Jazz is going back to college in two weeks, and we'll start our senior years. After that? Tucker wants to go to MIT or someplace like that. I doubt you want to stay in Amity, much less with your parents. And after that? We're going to be adults, we'll have jobs, maybe families of our own—how is this going to work?"

He suddenly realizes how badly this could turn out. He'll have to withdraw from life in general—it's fine if he only spends half his time in the Ghost Zone, but here? He wants to spend all his time here, as a human, with his friends and his family. He wants to sleep and have nightmares so he can visit Sam or Tucker to talk about something else and forget them. And—man, he hasn't thought about this in a while—he still wants to be an astronaut.

"This is too much," he mutters, resting his elbows on his knees. "I'm just a kid, Sam, who am I kidding? We should've told my parents the truth about the accident when we were fourteen, they would've figured something out. Or they would've torn me apart, molecule-by-molecule, and none of this would be happening either—"

The look on her face is enough to shut him up.

"Would you cut that out?" she snaps. "You are not going to die. You haven't died, and there's probably a reason for that, and that same reason is going to keep you alive! You don't want to die, you said so, okay. But—do you want to live?"

He looks at her, thinks about that question. It's a damn good question. Of course he does, is his first thought. But he thinks about what living entails—dealing with your issues even when you don't know how to, knowing that new ones will arise all the time. Then he recalls his earlier conversation with his dad—didn't he just conclude that he doesn't have to do anything alone? Didn't Sam just say so?

Sam looks like she's about to cry, again. Eyes wide, brows furrowed, biting her lip to keep it from trembling. She retrieved her hand and now has both of them firmly clasped together in her lap.

"Of course I do," he answers, looking at her straight in the eye. He doesn't know what else to say to reassure her (or himself).

She looks up, scrutinizes him, makes sure he's not lying.

"You'd better," she sighs. "Okay. Hold on to that thought, forever. You're not going anywhere. We're all going to figure this out, one step at a time. Even if I have to live with my parents until I'm on my deathbed, I swear, I'm not leaving you alone in this. And the same goes for Tucker, and Jazz, and your parents. Okay?"

He nods. That knot in his throat is back.

"I forgive you," she adds. "For this morning. If… you forgive me? I reacted badly, wasn't helping, I messed up too, I know."

He laughs. "Yes, Sam, I forgive you for being a concerned best friend that has been working very hard to fix my problems."

She hugs him. "You're such a dork. But seriously, you can't go blaming just yourself for it. I think I actually started it." She pulls away a moment later, yawning, and glances at her alarm clock. "Whatever, just forget that. You should go, get some sleep. We've got a long day ahead of us."

_Sleep_, he thinks. As far as he knows, this is the last night he'll ever get some sleep. He considers telling her about that, but doesn't want to. He'll leave that for tomorrow.

Right now, though, he's tempted to stay here. He knows he's much more likely to fall asleep in company than alone in his room—he has tested that theory on enough sleepovers to know it's true. He's tempted to curl up right here, beside her, just this once.

But he doesn't, because the idea would probably freak her out, or something, and it might get him thinking in ways he promised himself he wouldn't, and it's just better if he leaves.

"Danny?" Sam waves a hand. "You in there somewhere?"

He snaps out of it. "Sorry. Yeah, sleep. Good idea. G'night."

He changes back into ghost form, notices Sam shiver from the temperature drop. He winces, "Sorry. And… thanks." He doesn't specify what he's thankful for, but she gets it, like she always does.

"What are best friends for? Go on, go to sleep. And…" she looks him over, so carefully that it makes him a little nervous. Then she shrugs. "Make an effort to get up late, alright? You look like you need it."

* * *

**A/N:**

You know, I'd meant to ease up on the angst in this chapter... that didn't really work out. However, my opinion is biased, so I guess you tell me! It did push the plot forward a bit, so there's that. Next chapter will be… interesting. I think.

Thank-you very much to the reviewers—you guys keep me typing! And thank-you very much to the people that favorite and follow, because every email I receive makes my day a little better. And to the readers, in general, thank-you! The hits bar always goes a little higher!

Thanks for reading, happy last day of Phanniemay!

—Rose.

PS. My birthday is coming up :) If you can guess my age-how old I'll be-you'll get either an excerpt from next chapter, or you get to ask me a question-any question-about the story. Either prize will be exclusive to the first three people that guess. If you participate through a review, please actually _review. _If you just want to try your luck, PM me. I don't like spam reviews, so I will delete the review if it only contains a number.

Good luck!


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything Nickelodeon owns.

**Claimer: **This story is mine, though. I'm the one thinking it up and writing it down.

* * *

Chapter Six  
Mom

_2013.12—Maddie Fenton_

* * *

Cujo, like any other dog, has found an interest in shoes. Unlike any other dog, he doesn't leave saliva traces on them—it's ectoplasm.

Annoying as that may be, Danny prefers his own shoes dripping green, rather than his parents', because that'd be really inconvenient right now. He and Jazz just explained everything else that had gone unexplained to his parents. Well, almost everything. The focus of today's conversation was just the stuff going on recently. When he mentioned the week's attacks, though, he strayed far from the topic of Vlad.

That can wait. It's not like he's not going to tell them… he's just waiting for the right time. Bad enough your son is a liar—now your best friend is a fruitloop? No, thank-you.

They handle things better this time around, a little more responsive and a little less scrutinizing. At least Dad does; he even asks some questions, however half-hearted they sound: "Who is this Clockwork, anyway?" "Are these Historian people going to follow me around?"

He tires of the questions quickly, though, so he reminds Danny that, if he needs it, his dad is always willing to help, to talk. Then there's a pause and eventually Dad says, tired: "I think I'll just go digest this one—and my breakfast; thanks, Maddie—in the lab."

Danny figures he's about to go pull another ecto-gun apart, and he's tempted to stop him, but then what would he say? He doesn't really want a repeat of last night's conversation, but he doesn't want his dad to bottle things up and hide them from him either.

Then he realizes how stupid that sounds, because he did that same thing for three years and now his parents get to cope with that knowledge. So he just watches Dad descend the stairs to the basement and turns to face his mom and Jazz.

Mom is staring down at her coffee cup, and the sight is familiar—she was seated in the exact same position when he got in from the Ghost Zone the other night. Just like that, with a coffee cup in her hands, untouched and no longer steaming.

His mom never uses the machine to make coffee—years of strange experiences have taught her to avoid most appliances. But… his eyes quickly flicker green, and he studies the trashcan's contents. Packets of coffee mix.

Jazz asks him a silent question with her eyes, and he nods, so she leaves her plate in the sink, picks Cujo up, and heads up to her room. Now it's just the two of them, but Mom is still staring down at her coffee cup.

"Mom?"

She looks startled. "Sorry, sweetie." She looks around, notices everyone has left. Notices his empty plate and her full cup. He wonders: has she been listening at all? "Are you still hungry?"

He shakes his head, leaves his plate in the sink. He takes Dad's chair, right next to her, pays close attention to see if she flinches. She doesn't. "I just wanted to know if you're alright."

"I'm fine, just a little…" she trails off. "Are we being watched right now? By these history ghosts you talked about?"

So she _did _pay attention. "No, they haven't returned from the Ghost Zone, which is kind of weird, but just fine by me." He figured that the ghosts of history should be all about punctuality but… apparently not.

"Ah," Mom says. "Alright then." She takes a sip from her coffee and says nothing else.

He tries again: "Mom, you okay?"

She looks at him, thoughtful, as if he's asking for the meaning of life. Or maybe she's not thinking at all, though that's kind of hard to believe because—well, it's his mom. Finally: "Are you?"

He furrows his brow. "Sorry?"

"Are _you_ okay?" Mom asks. "Honey, you have bags under your eyes. You're on vacation! Why don't you go get some sleep?" She probably doesn't notice, but she mumbles _sleep _under hear breath once before taking another sip from her coffee.

"I'm fine, Mom," he says, even though her words bothered him. _Sleep_. She knows about the sleep thing now, and they're both thinking about it. He doesn't want to think about it. "Is there anything you want to talk about?"

Maybe it's the way he says it, a little worried, a tad hesitant, something in his voice that alerts a maternal instinct—there's _something_, at any rate, that makes Mom look up from her coffee with a tired smile. "Oh, sweetie. I'm perfectly alright." Her chair scrapes against the ground as she stands up, arms outstretched. "Come here."

He does. He lets his Mom hug him, tries to convince himself that the stinging sensation is just something stuck in his eye while she says: "I'm just worried about you. It bothers me that I wasn't there to help, honey. But now I'm here and I want you to know that I'm here for you. It's just… I have lots of things to make peace with, plenty to think about."

She pauses but hasn't let go of him. He says: "You can ask me stuff, you know? Or Jazz—she has notes."

Mom chuckles. "Yes, that she does. Don't worry about me, alright? You have plenty to deal with already. Take care of yourself, make smart decisions, listen to your sister and your friends. And your heart."

He snorts. "You're so cheesy, Mom." It sounds a little weak because there's a knot in his throat.

Mom notices. She pulls away, strokes his cheek while studying his face. "You're so grown up," she says. "Even though you shouldn't have to be. I'm very proud of you, Danny, please don't misunderstand me. I'm just… worried, as any mother would be in a situation like this."

He nods, swallows thickly. "I'll be alright."

"Then so will I."

* * *

His conversation with Mom ended with a portal sprouting in the middle of the kitchen. History and Anne walked out and, after a few quick and awkward introductions, Mom decided to go join Dad in the basement.

Now it's just them. "We are sorry for the delay," History says. "We were in a meeting."

"Clockwork is such a meanie," Anne says. "He won't let us watch you through a portal, even though you're so _boring _when we're around!"

Watch him through a… "What?"

"He usually allows us to, you see," History says. "Recording history tends to be difficult—so many things happening at once. We thought, seeing as you are just one person, we could follow you around and be done with it."

"But that didn't work," Anne grumbles.

He resents that. He couldn't exactly concentrate on doing much of anything with those two breathing down his back. He spent the entirety of yesterday afternoon alternating between talking with them (getting ghost history lessons from those two is fairly interesting) and stressing quietly, inside his own head, while flying around Amity. The only highlight was a brief conversation with Jazz, when they agreed that Mom and Dad had the right to know everything else that's going on.

Anne probably didn't find that conversation interesting enough to make history.

"We asked for a portal," History explains, "but Clockwork said you would not appreciate it. That conversation detained us, sorry."

Relieved, he makes a mental note to thank Clockwork later. "We'll figure something out," he says, though what he really wants is for them to back off. "I would appreciate it if you could just… keep a distance."

History nods. "We'll do our best to keep from intruding. Like we said yesterday, you won't even know we're here!"

"_Please _pretend you don't know we're here." Anne pauses. Her voice changes to that older one: "Well, on other days. Today you can pay us all the attention you want, cutie, 'cause we're going on a field trip!"

It bothers him a _lot _to hear a little girl sound like that, and Anne notices. She laughs, back to her childish tone, and he takes that moment to process what she said. "Field trip?"

"Clockwork gave us a task for this morning, it'll only take an hour. We're just going to show you the location for tonight."

Tonight. Oh shit.

He nods. Impulsively, he asks: "Is it alright if my friends tag along?"

History doesn't look particularly fazed by the question and says it's alright. So he calls Sam and Tucker, explains what's going on, and twenty minutes later they're done with the awkward introductions and waving goodbye to his parents while they start up the engine on the Specter Speeder.

He can't believe his parents let them use the Specter Speeder.

When they enter the Ghost Zone, he realizes that it has been a long time since he last properly roamed around here. It's stupid (he'll be seeing it for twelve hours, every day, for the rest of his life) but it's a perspective thing, and suddenly he really wants to get a good look. He's looking at it through the eyes of an outsider for the last time, like a tourist. No deep personal interest or connection to the place, just curiosity.

So he looks. And everyone he passes looks back, mirroring his curiosity for an entirely different reason.

Though usually deserted, this area of the Ghost Zone is now packed with ghosts. When the Speeder passes by, History and Anne flanking it at either side, ghosts stop and stare, they whisper, they take a step back. They point at him a lot.

"You'd think someone here wouldn't have read the paper," he mutters, sinking in his seat. "Only Dad ever reads it back at home, and he only reads the comics!"

Sam snorts. "Danny, how often do you think they get to read the paper here, though? Do they even _have_ one?"

"You could start one," Tucker suggests. "It'd add some level of organization to the place." He gestures to the mess of doors and chunks of land floating around. "It's clearly needed."

Danny ponders that. He can barely keep his closet neat (his room, never)—how is he supposed to organize this place? "You think that sort of thing is possible? This place is a mess."

"We've seen weirder stuff," Sam says, Tucker nodding in agreement. "And, anyway, what do ghosts even do around here? The Ghost Zone doesn't really work like our world—ghosts don't have jobs or any other defining role in society. Everybody sort of does their own thing. Do you think that's a cultural thing, or should we consider it an actual problem?"

Danny's brain doesn't feel up to considering it, period. He realizes how much of a shock this is going to be for him—he has to lose the attitude, pronto. He knows he has a genuine interest in helping out (hero complex or not), so that's a plus. He just has to channel it in the right direction.

Just… not now.

"We'll think about that later," he says. "Looks like we're here."

"Here" is a stretch of barren land that doesn't look any different from all the other floating islands around the Ghost Zone. It's not particularly large, maybe the size of the Park back at home; he could probably walk from one end to the other in about five or ten minutes.

He phases his friends out of the Speeder, next to where History and Anne stopped.

"Looks like it'll be some party," Tucker says. "You think all those ghosts we saw will fit here?"

"Oh, no," History says. "They aren't allowed on the island without Danny's permission. Won't be, anyway."

He finds that extremely vague, but Anne doesn't leave room for questions: "Ooh I can't wait to see what you'll do with the place." She pauses. "If you don't get it right I could spare some help… I've wanted to do this for ages!"

"Get what right?"

"The island, you dummy! It's yours!"

As if that explains everything. Then Tucker taps him on the shoulder. "Dude, look at this." He's gesturing towards his PDA. There's a map on the screen. "This is the place where Pariah's place should be. Used to be."

History nods. "Very good. This island did not specifically belong to Pariah Dark, however. It is linked to the crown and ring, and belongs to their owner. With them, you can shape this place into whatever you want, build anything that comes to mind."

"It's so fun!" Anne says. "It's a permission thing, like access to the island. Iris once let me play around, just for a minute." Her gaze turns downwards, she bites her lip. "She was… fun."

It dawns of him that Anne knew Iris. Of course she did.

"Danny?" Sam says. "You feeling okay?"

No, not at all. Anne is never going to see Iris again because her ghostly obsession has to do with history, and history will always exist. Anne is going to be around forever, just her grandpa and Clockwork for company. She's never going to see Iris again.

The feeling in his stomach isn't exactly pity; it's a raw form of empathy he doesn't remember having ever felt before. For a brief moment he tries to imagine how ghosts like History, Anne or Clockwork must feel but can't, and instead the dizziness intensifies.

Then it hits him: that could be him. If something goes wrong, if they've missed any details… The thought gives him perspective; he can't believe that, just a few days ago, he'd worried that shoving ghosts into the thermos would be his fate for the next seventy or eighty years, as if it were the worst thing in the world.

He looks up at the concerned gazes around him: "I'm fine." He really isn't.

History clears his throat. "Your friends will also be here this evening, right?"

Danny turns to look at Sam and Tucker. It's an unspoken sort of thing, that they'll be here; he realizes he never actually asked.

"Yup," Tucker says. "Don't worry, we'll find our way just fine—the Speeder's GPS system should have a lock on this place."

"Excellent," History says. "Then I suppose that will be all. Anne and I have some things to do before tonight, so you won't have us lurking around for the afternoon. I suppose you can make it back on your own?"

After a nod from Tucker, History and Anne nod back and leave.

"Let's go," Sam says, a hand on his shoulder. "You look like you're going to be sick."

He nods but Sam doesn't see it because, from behind him, Clockwork's voice cuts in: "Time out."

He feels Sam's hand on his shoulder go stiff. "You could just say hello like everyone else," he mumbles, prying Sam's hand away and turning to face Clockwork. He doesn't wait for the snarky answer: "I heard you didn't let the Historians snoop into my life with a portal. Thanks."

"You don't need anything else to worry about." He gestures around. "What do you think?"

"Could use some work," he shrugs. He has no clue what he's going to do with this place, but he chooses to put that off till later. "What happened to… well, everything?"

"It all disappeared when ownership of the crown and ring was transferred to you. Pariah's sarcophagus is under custody of the Observants now, that's not your concern."

That last part is a relief. They're quiet for a while, and Danny's tempted to ask Clockwork to start time back up because Tucker's frozen face is creeping him out. But the pensive look on his mentor's face makes him keep quiet, figuring it's best not to interrupt whatever is going on in his head.

"I wouldn't allow you to do this if I didn't think you could," Clockwork says suddenly. "Have faith in yourself."

That's strangely comforting. It also makes him wonder… "You're saying that just as there's a future where I mess this up really badly, there's a future where this doesn't go that bad?"

"Of course there is. There always is."

Cryptic as always, though this time he's okay with not knowing the details. He likes to think it allows a bigger margin of error, the possibility to mess up and know the damage isn't permanent. At least, that's what he wants to think.

A moment later, Clockwork says: "Be at my lair no later than quarter to midnight. I'll give you your instructions then."

He doesn't get to respond, cut off by a sharp "time in" and blinded by swirling portal in front of him. Then the portal fades, and he's faced with his reanimated friends.

The first thing he notices is the sharp gasp coming from his left, the look on Sam's face when she sees her hand floating randomly in mid-air. "Damn you, Clockwork," she mutters. She turns to face him. "Well, you look better."

"Yeah," he says, phasing his friends into the Speeder. He tries to focus on the last part of his conversation with Clockwork, tries to convince himself that he's telling them the truth when he says: "I'm good."

* * *

He has always known there are millions of ghosts out there, that the Ghost Zone is so large he'll never see it all. He only knows some of the ghosts, mostly the ones that can hold a form outside the Ghost Zone.

Tucker explained some of this to him during their ghost history lesson, but seeing it for real is something else entirely. Perhaps the shocking effect is doubled because they're all staring at him.

They're gathered in front of the island. When the time came, two of Walker's guards passed through the crowd to make a narrow path leading up it. Now he has to glide through it—walking would've taken him _ages_, that's how many of them there were—and even so it's taking a while. And everyone is whispering, staring: analyzing his every move and wondering what in the world is going on.

In fact, their train of thought can't be that different from his.

His friends and family are all standing atop the island, off to one side. To the other side, the Historians, the council of Observants and Clockwork. They're watching him very closely, too.

The gazes to his sides are pressing down on him, sizing him up, probably wondering what the heck is this kid up to, thinking oh shit, we're doomed, what's he going to do.

He doesn't know how he's doing this—keeps gliding, keeps his gaze firm Tucker's PDA or Sam's ponytail just to have something to look at. His hands are shaking at his sides, even tucked into fists, and he feels weak, like he'll collapse any minute, like his limbs are staging an uprisal against his brain, trying to turn around, saying _nope, wrong way, let's go back._

He can't go back.

Instead he goes forward, forward, forward. When he finally reaches the island and one of the Observants steps forward to greet him, he settles on the ground and stands firmly in his spot. He doesn't think he'll be able to move from that spot in a while.

Everyone goes silent.

"I am above meaningless pleasantries," the leader of the Observants says. "Do not misunderstand us. We do not think it wise to grant you any power at all."

Another of the Observants takes this as a cue and steps forward with a black box in his hands. Box isn't quite the word, though: it's smoke, little black tufts pieced together to form a shape that doesn't look at all solid. When the smoke fades, though, there they are.

Both the ring and the crown have that menacing glow that most any ghostly object holds, a dark aura a thousand times creepier than anything Hollywood special effects might create. And he has to wear these things?

"Do not accept these as gifts," the Observants' leader says, "because they are not. By taking possession of these relics, you are agreeing to follow the Ghost Zone's law code, to protect it and its inhabitants, to take responsibility for it and them. Do you understand this?"

"I understand." The only reason anyone hears him is the absolute silence.

There's a pause that gives him time to study the ghost in front of him, much shorter than him but floating high enough to meet him eye-to-eyes. That's the thing about the Observants—how they're always staring with that big eye they have for a head. He has been stared at too much for these past two days, for these past few minutes, and this one big eye feels like the last straw.

Said eye flickers between the objects and himself, and he takes that as his cue. No one but him can touch them, Tucker once explained. There's a part of him that's still scared to reach out, scared his head's gonna blow, his finger will fall off, he'll die within a second, he'll become a full ghost... Sam said it's not likely.

_We thought the sudden surge in energy would kill your human half, _she'd said. _But, looking into it, we realized that your human half isn't really there when you're a ghost. It's hard to explain, Jazz can tell you more._

Sam tried hard not to look him in the eye when she explained that.

He's scared out of his wits, but he feels the tense silence and the weight of so many gazes on top of him, and his desire to get this over with outweighs his fears. He reaches out and, as he does, the Observant says: "The Ring of Rage is the concentration of the King's power, the strongest and most dangerous of the two…"

He stops listening because he knows all this already—thank-you, Tucker—and because he's entranced. Its glow is kind of fascinating, not a constant sort of thing, but rather little smoky tendrils flying around it, teasingly. Like oh, this power is so strong that it takes turns slipping out for a breath of fresh air, it's just taking a stroll, don't mind it.

The stone in the middle is bright, so much it blinds him at first. He knows that's where all the energy is concentrated, that it just flows around the circular shape of it so that it doesn't build up. That's why it's a circle—it goes on and on, in a perfectly confined space that never starts and never ends.

That sounds strangely appropriate, given his situation.

Eyes on him again. He gulps, gets a shiver up his spine and shudders a little, looks away and meets Sam's gaze.

_Won't kill you_, she said. _You'll be fine._

He slips it on.

_You'll be fine._

"Well, I'm not too late, am I?"

That voice. He's been wondering about that voice's absence.

"Terribly busy, I was. But it seems I arrived just in time, didn't I?" Vlad smirks and touches down on the far end of the path between the crowd. "Had a bit of a delay, I'm afraid; you could say I offered too many friends a ride."

He grins that cruel smirk of his, but his eyes aren't into the game today. He's mad. Of course he's mad.

Behind him, ghosts begin to show—Spectra, Nocturne, Prince Aragon, Freakshow, Lydia. These are his real enemies; truly angry, grudge-holding, bitter sorts of ghosts. Some others he doesn't recognize at all, but they're all glaring at him just the same. At first glance he figures there's around thirty of them. He focuses on Vlad. "You _had _to make an entrance, huh?"

"What better way to make a statement? That is why I'm here, of course." He jumps back into flight, addressing the crowd as a whole, "Allow me to ask: What do you expect from this boy? He has no experience beyond seventeen meager years of life, no vision, no ambition. Say, do any of you even trust him?"

He starts to see red. It's a little worrying, how fast Vlad gets to him. "I'm sure they're more inclined to trust me," he retaliates, "than you."

But he's not so sure about that, and Vlad can see it. "Yet _I _have sympathizers," Vlad says, gesturing to the small group behind him. "And from what they have told me, you have enemies."

Someone else cuts him to the chase, says: "Just like you."

He already knows Walker agreed to supervise the event, but he never figured he'd follow through if something like this happened. But suddenly there he is, flanked by his guards, staring Vlad down. "You've given me some trouble these past few weeks. I know you've been sneaking my prisoners out. Your little display here is complete disregard for the authority." He smirks. "Looks like you've been messing with the rules."

His guards rise to attack, but Vlad shields himself from their blasts and shakes his head, stepping down to stand right in front of Walker. "Do forgive the intrusion," he says, "though I'm not here to fight today."

"What do you want, then?" Danny asks. "You've made your statement. Leave."

Vlad makes a _tsk, tsk_ noise. "Such manners, really. What would your parents say"—he cuts himself off, notices Jack and Maddie. "Oh, this is interesting. You finally told them."

Not everything, he thinks. He needs to get Vlad out of here before things get messy. "Leave my parents out of this, Vlad." His voice is cold, so much that it surprises Vlad into turning to face him. "This isn't about them."

"No? And what, exactly, do you suppose it is about?"

He crosses his arms. "Might have something to do with me getting everything you ever wanted. Power. If it makes you feel any better, it's not like I asked for any of it."

"Then allow me to relieve you of your burden, Daniel. Simple compromise, yes?"

"No."

"I figured you'd say that." He floats back to his group. Raises his voice. "Very well, I will leave. But first, consider this: there is dissent among you," he gestures to the crowd, "I can feel it. I have seen and heard it"—he gestures to his group—"and I intend to take action. Freedom of speech, yes? Of assembly?

He loses the act and glares. "I do not agree with granting unlimited, unrestrained power to a _teenager_. I do not think many of you do. Think on that." He turns and nods to Lydia, who begins to turn, and turn, and turn, until she has created a whirlwind—a portal.

He's shocked to see Walker turn to him, a question in his eyes. Pursuit or no pursuit? He doesn't really know, but he sees why this is important. He's about to take a decision in public.

He doesn't get to consider this one because the enemy is getting away and he needs to choose now. He glances around at all the ghosts gathered. He essentially has an army at his disposal right this instant.

He shakes his head. _No._

All enemies but one are gone. "You would do well to contemplate my offer," Vlad says. "You do not want to cross me, nor any other enemy of yours. You have plenty of them, I've seen."

Vlad doesn't wait for a response and steps into the vortex.

Walker's guards step back to the sidelines and the murmurs rise once more. The Observant still standing at his side looks bewildered, a little bothered by lack of propriety or something equally ridiculous like that.

Behind him, his parents are glancing at one another, muttering _Wisconsin ghost. _Beside them, Jazz looks like she nearly had a heart attack. She notices him looking and tries to give him an encouraging nod, but it doesn't convince either of them. She looks away.

The Observant in front of him coughs, probably wants to go on like nothing just happened, but he figures that's just not going to work.

He takes a decision, hopes he's not about to make a fool of himself, and takes a step away from the Observant, facing the crowd. He doesn't have a fear of public speaking, thankfully, but this is something else entirely. There's a reason why Sam is the activist, why Tucker is the one running for student council. He's the one with a secret identity—it's secret for a reason. He doesn't work well with the public eye.

That's probably why he starts off rather badly: "So this is awkward."

It is, given the silence.

"You heard him," he says. "He doesn't agree. I bet a lot of you don't. Heck, I don't." This is probably a really bad idea, but he lets himself rant, just this once. "All of this is the result of a big, unlucky coincidence. If you want to point fingers, let me tell you—Vlad woke Pariah Dark. Wasn't me. But I guess that doesn't matter anymore, huh? We're all involved now.

"Things got messy under Pariah Dark. If you can remember the time Scepter and Iris were around, you'll get my point. I'm not saying I can take you back to that sort of glory era—Vlad's right, I'm learning as I go along. I'm willing to try, though."

As if that makes everything better. He's getting uncomfortable up here.

Particularly, it bothers him to face them all down like this, he's so high up. What he's about to do might not give the right message, but craning his neck ever so slightly like this is making him twitchy. He sits down at the edge of the island and crosses his legs; the silences lets up for a few murmurs but everyone eventually quiets down.

He continues, a shred more comfortable addressing them like this: "Look. I'm not looking to be here in the long run, but if you don't want me here at all, I won't put on that crown. This is your problem too." He pauses. "Just please don't take the violent approach like Vlad. Speak up, I'll hear it. If you all shoo me from here right now, I swear I'll leave and I won't come back."

He's tempted to insist that they do just that. If Sam has that list of requirements around, he could pass this burden onto someone else right this instant.

But—he doesn't want that. He took this path for a reason. "Thing is, I don't think any of you really want to be up here either, and I don't blame you for it. And if you do—think that over a couple times. I didn't get much of a choice, so here I am. You all know, supposing you read the whole newsletter, that the Ghost Zone will continue to be in danger if someone doesn't claim the crown and the ring. That's the only reason why I agreed to this, don't get the wrong idea. But if you all don't want me up here as much as Vlad doesn't, then okay. We'll have to figure something else out, keeping in mind that we need to be fast about it."

He gulps. This could either work really well, or.. not. "I chose to take this risk," he says carefully, "knowing it might end up really badly for me. Now I'm going to let you guys choose if you're okay with it or not."

Now he's quiet, and he'd like it very much if someone else spoke up for a change.

But for a while no one does, a silence filled with absolute stoicism, no eyebrows rising and no middle fingers pointed. It's enough to make him rise to his feet with a sigh, contemplating that glowing green crown and realizing that things will, after all, go on as if nothing happened.

And then comes the interesting part, when Ghost Writer, even in his introverted nature, rises to hover a little above the crowd, crosses his arms and says in a tone that eerily reminds him of the Christmas incident: "Long live the undead king."

And for a scary moment everyone sort of stares between the two of them, and then Clockwork rises up and repeats after him. Dora joins them and repeats, and the kicker is when Youngblood does the same, in his little-kid voice, hook in the air and pirate hat tipped: "Long live the undead king!"

And some of his friends join in and start to repeat. A few of his enemies do stay on the ground, but they only look at him with raised, skeptical eyebrows. He sees what they're saying: they'll test him. That's a scary thought on its own—he has plenty to prove but no idea how to do it.

But that's a problem for another day, he figures, when he sees that big eye gesture to the floating crown. He takes it carefully, gingerly, and notices how some of the ring's little tendrils of smoke float towards it and away from his finger.

The Observant looks like he wants to say something, probably another dull history lesson on the crown, but the crowd drowns out his voice and he's perfectly alright with that. He doesn't turn to face his family or friends this time, doesn't really focus on the crowd staring at him. This time he's looking down at his hands, thinking _here goes nothing_ and hoping Sam was right when she said he'd be fine.

He puts it on, feeling a little ridiculous for a moment, but that stops quickly.

On first instance, he can say it hurts, and the grimace on his face makes everyone shut up. His wrists, his elbows, his knees all twitch and his back arcs and for a minute he kind of hopes the crown will fall off and make it stop, but it doesn't. He doesn't even feel its weight—it floats, how appropriate—but its presence is there.

This "hurt" is cold and uncomfortable, running down his spine, across every nerve, hitting his fingertips and running back to its origin. It's not quite like receiving an electric shock (he would know) but it's just as jolting and for a moment he's scared he'll have a seizure then and there, in front of everyone.

The sensation settles and now he just feels a presence, running through his body the way you can sometimes feel blood rushing, heart beating. The word for it is overwhelming, because even though he feels wide awake, he wants to curl up and go to sleep, process this one on his own.

He feels that energy in him, running and jumping around, just begging to be used. It infiltrates his thoughts, tells him how easy it would be to find Vlad right now, find those the prison escapees, a number of his enemies… it's an urge to throw the first punch for once in his life, to prove something. The thought is random, sudden and worrying, but it's gone the moment it gets there, and he's suddenly met with many, many eyes on him. This time he can't look away, drag his focus someplace else, and instead can only stare back.

That's when it hits him, one of those _oh shit_ moments that make you stumble, make you stutter. Your heart skips a beat and your knees feel like they're about to collapse, your breath is cut short and your stomach is filled with ice.

This is it. This is real.

* * *

A/N:

Oh, gosh. This took a long time to write. Hurrah for 6000 word chapters! Speaking of which, I'm moving around some stuff with the outline, so there's a chance you'll start getting longer chapters more often. In turn, this might cut down the final chapter count from 15-20 to 10-15. (I know you guys may not find this as exciting as I do, just celebrate with me :D)

Thank-you very much to the fantastic reviewers, to those who favorite and alert, and to the readers as a whole because you guys are amazing :) I hope you liked this chapter!

Two very special thank-yous today: the first toibelieveinahappilyeverafter (tumblr user), whom you can credit for the "long live the undead king" line. I originally intended to use several lines from the original post, but plot happened and I only used that one, which actually helped inspire the last scene. (Original post is linked to on this chapter's tumblr post.)

The second special thank-you is for MarkTheTinyGiraffe (ffnet user), for the fantastic fanart (can be found on this story's tumblr account). I'm flattered!

I'd love to hear your opinions on this chapter; my brain, fingers, and keyboard are all reeling from it. See you all next week!

—Rose.

PS. Last thing, I swear: this story went past the 25K mark with this chapter, which I find both exciting and exhausting to think about. Yay! Plenty to celebrate today, yes?


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything Nickelodeon owns.

**Claimer: **This story is mine, though. I'm the one thinking it up and writing it down.

* * *

Chapter Seven  
Dani & Desiree

_2014.8—Desiree_

_2013.14—Dani Phantom_

* * *

He half-listens to the leader of the Observants, who's trying to give him instructions and warnings that sound more like threats (though they're _obviously_ not, because that would be a problem). He's distracted by the feeling of energy streaming through his body in uneven intervals; it's not getting to his head anymore, which suits him just fine, but the tips of his fingers crackle with energy and he feels wide awake—too awake for it to be past midnight, in fact, and maybe that's most startling part of it all.

His family and friends were reluctant to leave him there, but knew the argument was futile from the start. They left maybe fifteen minutes ago and now it's just him for the next five hours, listening to the Observant drone on, trying not to twitch…

Until a familiar voice behind him cuts in: "Danny!"

Relieved, he contains his grin and tells the Observant to "hold that thought" for just a minute—though in his head he's hoping it'll be at least ten—and turns to greet Dani. Or, at least, so he intends to, but she flies straight into him and knocks the breath out of his lungs. He manages to keep his balance, but she doesn't let go.

"I missed you," Dani murmurs. She pulls back, looks around his deserted island. "So, looks like you've been busy." She turns back to him, hands on her hips. "And talk about impersonal! Honestly, that invite of yours? Knocked me out of my seat when I first read it."

"_You're_ the one that comes and goes without leaving an address," he teases, though it's half-hearted because it's something that really does bother him. Dani likes to travel, he gets that, but she's so young. She has barely three years of life experience on her shoulders, no matter what age she looks like, and though he never mentions it because he doesn't know how she'll react, he worries.

Dani takes his comment in stride, the way she always does. "I guess it's _addresses_, actually. I have loads to tell you about. Did you get the pictures? Mexico is _amazing_! And Brazil—gosh, I'll have to drag you there some time. Sam and Tucker, too—Tucker! Ooh he's going to love the food. And the sights…" She grins, nudges him in the side. "I bet Sam would be impressed."

He shrugs off a blush, tosses an arm over her shoulders so that she won't see it. "Good to have you back." He's kind of hesitant to ask—it's not like he wants to encourage her: "So where's next?"

The look on her face catches him off-guard. "Well, actually, I was hoping to sit tight for a few weeks." She fumbles with a strand of her hair. "Your invite came at a good time, you know, I'd been looking for a new place to visit for a few days and… anyway, I guessed that this"—she gestures not-so-subtly at his crown—"meant Vlad would mind his own business. I figured I could… maybe, stay with you?"

She's not looking at him and for a scary moment he's wondering if he's got it all wrong and all this time she's been thinking that she has to travel because she's got nowhere to go. But that doesn't sound quite right, and the thought is fleeting because his enthusiasm breaks in: "Seriously? You're staying?"

Dani nods. "Just for a little while, though—don't worry about it."

"Are you kidding?" Seriously, is she? "Dani, you can stay whenever you want, however long you want. You know that, right?" At first she doesn't answer, so he presses on: "Right?"

She looks up with that grin of hers—"Right."

She's brushing it off, and that only means one thing: a conversation is in order.

It'll have to wait, though, because the Observant at his side looks impatient, and Dani looks kind of worn out. He wonders how long she had to fly to get here. "Here's an idea," he tells her, turning to face the lot of empty space before them.

He hasn't tried this yet, but Anne once explained how it works. _Choose stuff you're familiar with, _she said. He's not the most perceptive guy out there, so only one place comes to mind. _You'll get it—it's not supposed to be tricky. Just picture it in your head._

He does, and there's a funny tug in his fingers, a tension of sorts he normally feels in his gut whenever he's firing ectoplasm. The ring feels a little warm on his finger, and when he looks down he notices it—the teasing tendrils of smoke rising and drifting away, from his hand to…

His house.

It worked. He can't believe it worked—stuff doesn't regularly work out for him on the first try, but there it is: an exact replica of his house standing right in front of him, smack-dab in the middle of the island.

He turns to Dani, who looks impressed. "Jazz's room is all yours," he tells her. "Here, or back in Amity—she won't mind, you stayed there last time."

Dani looks genuinely touched, and now he's convinced that they need to talk about this. What did she expect? That he'd turn her away or something?

Maybe it's a girl thing.

"Thanks," she says. She gestures to the Observant still loitering behind them. "I guess I'll leave you to it, see if you've got the makings of an architect. See you around!"

She flies off, phases into his house. For once he actually knows where she's going, and the thought is comforting enough to generate the patience needed to listen to the Observant, who is back to his speech, saying something about manners.

Patience or not, he thinks, it's going to be a long five hours.

* * *

Tucker has always been willing to lend a helping hand with research, even though it's not quite his forte. Jazz usually has a variety of ideas to test, and this theory on how ghosts aren't necessarily dead is just the latest one. He's always willing to help.

He has been, in fact, helping for several weeks now. Even before she brought it up to Danny, he'd been in on it. More than research, his job usually involves listening to her ramble and taking notes, pointing out inconsistencies, _easy there, let's backtrack a minute_… and coffee. It's a dietary staple for the two of them, and thank goodness for Mrs. Fenton's coffee packets because he doesn't really trust any of the Fentons' kitchen appliances.

This occasion isn't quite that different from other cases—there are notebooks and pens, coffee cups, Jazz's hair is a mess from pulling and tugging and chewing (but he won't let her know he notices that last one) in thought. Except it is out of the norm, a little, given that Jazz is going nuts, and she doesn't usually go nuts by this phase.

"I just don't understand!" she says. "_Undead king_, he said. If you put that tidbit into context, knowing one ghost said that about another—well, about a half-ghost, whatever—it doesn't make any sense unless there's recognition to the fact that ghosts are actually dead people. But the research says otherwise—I can't have been wrong all this time!"

"You _aren't_," he cuts in. This conversation has taken up all morning, it's almost noon, and he's getting a little tired of repeating the same argument over and over again. "We have evidence and nearly two months' worth of notes."

She either doesn't pay any attention, or simply reconfigures her train of thought to fit what he just said into the dilemma, because she keeps going: "So why does he say my little brother is an _undead_ king, as if he's supposed to be dead or implying that a king should be… and _why_ would he say _long live_? Is that just part of the cultural definition for the phrase, meant for luck, or is there some hidden message in there connected to the concept of being _undead_?"

_Damn Ghostwriter_, Tucker thinks.

"He's a literary guy," he says, trying to bring Jazz out of it. "He probably said that in some figurative or metaphorical sense."

"But what if he didn't? That single phrase has the potential to complete disprove my theory!"

He gestures to the coffee table, their research mess of paper and notebooks and paper and coffee. "You have _notebooks _of research versus six words from a literary guy. These writer types can't be trusted with every little thing, Jazz."

She thinks that over, and suddenly looks determined. For a moment he thinks he has won this one—she's going to admit it, he's right, she's worrying over nothing, she shouldn't doubt herself… "There's only one way to find out, then."

She jumps over the living room coffee table—actually _jumps—_and heads down to the lab. Eyes wide, he follows. "What are you… are you serious?"

"Very," Jazz says from her seat in the Specter Speeder. "Are you coming or what?"

He groans, writes a quick note to the Fentons, and hops in. "Do you even know where Ghostwriter's lair is?"

"I'm willing to bet _you_ know."

"Of course you are," he mumbles. "I'm driving, then."

She lets him drive, and is quiet the whole ride. Thinking. Always thinking.

It's no secret he really likes Jazz—he's had a crush on her since he first started coming to play at Danny's when they were little—but that had faded with the years until… well, he's not quite sure. Being part of Danny's team meant spending lots of time with her, and the secrecy of it all made things so much more personal and… intimate. Close as they were, he never saw her as a sister, no matter how annoyingly overprotective she could get.

Of course there are rules in the guy code about liking your best friend's sister, but after everything he's been through, he figures the guy code ought to cut him some slack.

He finds the silence in the Speeder perfectly comfortable, something that only ever happens with Jazz. He likes to say he can hear her think, but the truth is he just likes to _know _she's up to something, her energy is fully devoted to this one particular idea, she's willing to step into the Ghost Zone (not her favorite place in the world, she once confided) for research, excited enough to jump over a coffee table and race down the stairs even though that's not the image of composure she tends to strive for… more than anything, he likes the feeling of being part of it, hearing her share her thoughts, knowing she wants to hear his opinion, too.

It's different from his friendship with Danny and Sam, especially given their strange routine. There's always something particular between those two, has been since they were kids even if they don't want to acknowledge it. In their dynamic as ghost hunters, he knows that his role is much closer to the sidelines than Sam, and though that stopped bothering him a long time ago, working with Jazz is rewarding the way working with his friends isn't. He feels part of something, front and center.

This is how the ride to Ghostwriter's goes, then: in silence, two people immersed in completely different streams of thought. When they finally arrive, Jazz is out the door in a snap, leaving Tucker to catch up after having properly parked the Speeder.

Upon entrance, he finds Jazz already talking, explaining her theory, the arguments, the evidence… and then she reaches the _insignificant _detail that has had her going mad (and in turn, driving him mad) for three days straight.

When she's done, Ghostwriter looks impressed and doesn't bother to hide it one bit. "Very thorough. You're correct, of course, any ghost could have told you so. Not all of us are dead. You should trust yourself more, young lady. You have enough evidence—why should one writer's words make a difference? Still, your efforts are commendable."

Jazz blushes, and of course this makes Tucker see red because didn't he _just _tell her that? Repeatedly, over the space of an entire morning?

Ghostwriter continues: "Why _did _I say that? Well, your brother needed some help, poor kid. Good speech, I suppose, though very obviously improvised and in need of revision." Cue dramatic sigh: "Oh, well. What's done is done.

"_Long live the undead king. _One of my better ideas yet, I think. I find something poetic in the relation between the two parts of this phrase—and undead person has, hypothetically, a long time to live. The definition of _long _in this context is, naturally, subjective, but that's a detail.

"I see two sides to this. First, I understand that your brother's ghost half is tied to his human half. Once the latter is gone, I think the former will go as well. Your brother is an undead king because that's the only sort of king he'll ever be—once he dies, he won't be king anymore because he won't be a ghost anymore. Of course, this is just an inference and I can't really be sure about these details. Clockwork is being awfully cryptic about it—something about a cat."

"Schrodinger's cat?" Tucker suggests.

"Yes, that," Ghostwriter says, offhandedly. "The second side to this, my personal favorite, is how your brother is not a ghost by nature. Had it not been for his accident, the only way he would've ever become a king is through death. Death from or related to a potent obsession, too, otherwise he wouldn't have become a ghost. That's the detail I tried to mention, to make light of his condition because he is the unlikely, undead king. Because you are absolutely right, young lady—that kid is not dead at all."

Jazz looks absolutely fascinated, and she's taking notes on his PDA—hey, where and when did she get hold of that?—and he's still seeing red because this literary dude just earned a spot on his hit list. He'd better watch out the next time he butts into Amity.

"I don't think Danny would appreciate the part about you _making light _of his situation," Tucker says.

"No, but I suppose that's the beauty of it. It's a cold truth, isn't it? The reader's opinion means little to me when I know I am communicating something of value." He chuckles, turns back to Jazz. "At any rate, I sincerely doubt everyone read into it quite as much as you and I. The real value in the phrase is how catchy it is, so very inspiring to a crowd. Motivated as they were, given that unpleasant Vlad character's visit, they only needed a nudge, which I provided." He grins to himself, makes a flourish with one hand and tips his head. "Happy to help."

_Happy to help_, Tucker mocks in his head. He knew it: these literary people aren't to be trusted at all, even if they're oh so very _happy to help_.

* * *

Tucker's idea started with lists.

Well, one list. A fairly simple list—just names. Just to count how many ghosts we're dealing with, he said. They'd started planning—Ghost Writer can help us send another message, gather everyone again—maybe we can send door-to-door scouts, can we actually do that in the Ghost Zone?

It got overwhelming quickly enough, and that's when inspiration hit: not just names, Tucker exclaimed—let's count the domains, let's see where these guys live, it can't just be Walker's Prison and Skulker's Island. And let's ask questions, let's see what these guys' obsessions are, let's ask when they died—oh, sorry, Jazz, let's ask _if _they died.

Danny thought it a good idea; he _did _want to know how many ghosts actually lived in the Ghost Zone, figured it'd come in handy to have some sort of record, but he didn't think it was a good time. Why would it? He only just started, it's hard enough to get people to listen to him. He isn't imposing or threatening, never intended to be, and now that that's common knowledge, it's harder to be taken seriously.

But then Sam chipped in. She'd been doing some research, she explained, and found that Scepter and Iris used to have very complete records. But—wait, she said, that's not all. She said it with this particular tone, conviction and enthusiasm, that let him know she wouldn't let this one go easily. She wanted to get ghosts _jobs_. Roles in society, she called it. Give them some sort of identity.

Jazz pointed out that that sort of thing might keep them away from Amity, might make them take an interest in their home again. He mulled it over for some days, and the only reason he asked Clockwork about it was Jazz's comment.

And so it began.

The Census Project started with designing a questionnaire, a duty he was more than happy to delegate to Sam and Tucker. Jazz supervised. Ghostwriter agreed to send it out. The ghosts would have to drop off the complete form in a crate at his island.

Three days in, he was sick of it.

"Remind me why I agreed to this?" he mutters.

Sam, who just stepped into the living room (replica of his living room, anyway), answers by handing him another stack of forms. "Because you listened to us, for a change."

_For a change? _"Now I remember why I don't usually listen to you."

Tucker whacks him on the head with his pile, snickers when he mumbles _ow _and rubs his scalp. Then he says: "So what am supposed to do with a Toilet Ghost?" Tucker is keeping in his laugh.

Dani, on the other hand, doesn't mind cracking up. "A toilet ghost? I don't think ghosts even go to the bathroom."

"You don't suppose this guy just has a big sense of humor?" Danny asks. "Some of these forms feel like a prank."

Sam gives him a tired look. "Some of these ghosts don't have names, Danny, so they call themselves stuff like that because of their obsessions. I got a Wire Ghost a couple minutes ago—did you see her picture? Tangled in copper, head to toe." She shudders. "She's one of the actual dead people around here, but she can't remember her name from when she was alive. The accident was that bad." She pauses. "So you tell me: why do you think his name is Toilet Ghost?"

He really didn't need to hear that. He's had his fair share of cringe-inducing, heart-clenching stories so far, and they're all pulling at his nerves. He knows Sam is right, of course, and he knows some of his humor never sits well with her—though he's far better off than some of Tucker's jokes—but still. He would argue his point, but he knows he'll lose this one anyway, so he nods and says "point conceded" the way he's learned to over the years.

He still feels tension in the air, though, knowing that his friends are overwhelmed and tired—he is, too—and knowing it's late. He's exhausted in his own right, given that he hasn't been sleeping at all but has discovered that he _does _get tired anyway. "Here's an idea," he says. "Let's just arrange these alphabetically, like Tucker said earlier. It's not like we're going to finish tonight, or this month, anyway."

Sam and Tucker think about it for a few minutes, but Dani agrees on the spot.

They spend the next two hours on that, but aren't quite finished when the clock hits midnight and Sam and Tucker leave. That was the agreement—they'd stick around for the first six of his mandatory twelve hours, but no more because… parents.

He knows that's going to become an issue soon enough.

Sam's, for one thing, are back from their trip—probably Paris or something, Sam says, but who knows—and are suddenly inspired to keep close tabs on their daughter. Sam doesn't mind staying out till late just to make a statement, but it does bother him, a little. And Tucker's parents are usually lenient with curfews during summers, but staying out late every day for the whole summer isn't going to sit well with them. Tucker's argument is that midnight doesn't quite qualify as "late" but of course that's hardly an argument against parents.

Parents. His own are still reeling from, well, everything, even though it's been two weeks since he told them. It's not like they show it, or say anything about it, but it's present in the details, like his mother reminding him to make his bed out of habit every morning, and then remembering he doesn't sleep in it anymore.

It makes things that much more uncomfortable at home, enough for him to be happy that they spend so much time in the lab. They don't ask as many questions anymore, and he's a little scared that at some point they'll start to pretend nothing happened. Jazz never fails to remind him that they still need to break the news about Vlad, and his meager excuse is that he wants them to adjust a little more before dropping another bomb on them.

Jazz has myriad arguments on why it's a bad idea to wait—and he knows, deep down, that it really would be better to just spit it out for once and for all. But then he sees the look on his dad's face when he uses the portal to leave the house every day at six pm—his dad has never been one for subtlety when it comes to body language—and he tells himself he'll deal with it later.

Among other things he has put off lately: Sam and Tucker just left for Amity, and he and Dani remain to finish stacking this mess in alphabetical order. He told himself over two weeks back that he needed to have a conversation with her, and that's one thing he'd rather deal stop putting off.

He continues sorting through the C names, trying to think of a way to bring this up. "So," he says. "You were in Brazil?"

Dani looks at him curiously. "Umm, yeah. What about it?"

He shrugs. "And before that? You said you had loads to tell."

She shrugs back. "Drifted around that area, mostly. I even picked up a bit of Spanish, a bit of Portuguese—I made some friends that taught me little things here and there." She gives him a look. "But I bet that's not what you're trying to get at."

He chuckles. "Yeah. I just… umm… can't find the words for this." Dani snorts, but he lifts a finger before she says anything. "Okay, thing is, I get worried. Just a little."

She pauses, leaves her stack on her lap and furrows her brow at him. "I can take care of myself."

"I know that," he says. "It's not that, actually. It's just… I know you like traveling an all, but do you like it that much? It's not a bad thing, it's awesome, in fact. But… when you said you wanted to stay here for a while, sit tight, how long had you been wanting to say so?"

She purses her lips, fingers her ponytail, looks away. As far as he's learned, that's how girls say that they're stumped. Which means he nailed this one—which, in turn, bothers him because _come on_, how did he not notice this sooner?

Well, it's not like she's around often enough for him to thoroughly inspect her behavior (that's Jazz's job) but seriously. Bad move on his part.

"Look, it's not a big deal, okay?" Dani says. "What I said, I mean. I just—I see families and stuff out there, wonder what that's like, get a little homesick. I like traveling. It's nothing against you guys, I swear. I don't come by often because, well, Vlad. He gives you enough trouble as is without me around, so I just prefer to… stay away." She cringes. "Oh, that sounded terrible. Don't hate me."

_Hater her? _"Wait, Vlad?" He wants to shake her shoulders until her logic process is entirely rearranged. "You don't stick around because of _Vlad_?"

She nods slowly, facial expression screaming _well, duh._

Now what is he supposed to say? That it's a shitty excuse? What the heck, Dani, are you serious? "That's it?"

She fingers the files in her lap. "Well, it's not like I could stay with you—I wouldn't want to keep up the cousin pretense around your parents, I'd feel like a big fat liar. And Sam and Tucker like me well enough, and vice versa, but there's parents to think about and it'd be incredibly awkward for everyone involved." She sighs, gives him a patient smile that doesn't convince him at all. "It's fine, Danny. Like I said, I like traveling."

"Sam does, too, but it's not like she accompanies her parents on every single trip."

"That's different—"

"Yeah, I know, bad example. Look, my point is, you really should've told me about this sooner. If you don't want to go anywhere, you're not going anywhere. And that would've applied three, two years ago, if you wanted. It wouldn't have been the easiest thing in the world, but it's not like anything in my life is easy, anyway. We would've figured something out."

Dani's eyes are watering and he feels like a piece of shit for not having realized this sooner. "Thanks," she says, standing up. She mumbles: "I don't want to talk about this anymore. I need some sleep."

Even though he wants to press on the matter, he has to agree with that last sentiment. It's late. In theory, the not-needing-sleep thing could apply to Dani as well, if she fit herself to the schedule, but he'd rather she doesn't try it.

To hell with what Clockwork promised—he's exhausted. The worst part is he can't really fall asleep, even when he tries—he doesn't wear the crown and ring when he's in Amity, but he still feels their presence, power keeping him wide awake even though his body desperately needs a nap.

"I'll wake you before I leave for Amity," he tells Dani, conceding to leave the topic—for now—on the side. "Thanks for the help today."

"Welcome," she mumbles. She leaves her stack of papers on the coffee table, walks over to him and gives him a hug. "Thank-you," she says, so quiet he nearly misses it even though there's not another sound for miles.

He returns the hug, a little awkwardly. She's usually cool about affection, never gets too close. He always figured Vlad had traumatized her with that, leaving her with the impression that showing affection does not necessarily mean it exists. It's why he always gave her space—Jazz says that, given the Dani's age at the time, this probably affected her much more than she lets on.

Now he feels like an idiot because she probably interpreted his distance for indifference and—he—_never_—noticed.

She heads up the stairs to Jazz's room, which looks less and less like Jazz's room as the days go by and Dani adds and removes stuff. Now he's sitting alone in the living room that's not actually his living room, surrounded by thousands of papers that he doesn't really feel like sorting.

But he doesn't actually have anything to do tonight, something fairly common that leaves him looking for things to do. On one occasion he spent several hours just thinking, though he can't remember what exactly he pondered for so long. There was another time, just a few days ago, when he flew around the Ghost Zone trying to tire himself out so he could sleep.

He got tired, yes, but he didn't get a wink of sleep. He knows he won't get any sleep tonight either, so he takes his stacks (the Cs, Ds, and Es) down to the lab, his makeshift work area.

The lab, though still cluttered with his parents' junk, is a little larger and has a desk and some chairs against the wall where the portal used to be (he couldn't recreate something like that inside the Ghost Zone, of course). That desk has seen a few meetings with Walker (because Vlad's clever pals have yet to be found and captured) and only one with Clockwork. It's the only place in the world where he genuinely sits down to think, a miracle on its own.

It's also the place where he comes up with some of his better ideas. Exactly this happens while he skims through the D names, and his eyes land on Desiree's form—specifically, the backstory part of her form.

He has been sorting for hours now, and it's not like his attention span is in top shape—he's tired, mad at himself (given his conversation with Dani), and his headache is coming back, fast and angry. However, the moment his eyes land on Desiree's form, on the word _kingdom _of her backstory; as he skims through it and reads, tries to remember what exactly had happened to her…

It hits him, fast and sudden, and it's either the best idea he's had in years, or he just can't realize how bad it is because he has a migraine punching through any course of logical thought attempting to get through. He thinks about it for a grand total of two minutes before thinking gets painful. Usually he'd ask Sam about this sort of thing, but he's convinced this is his best idea yet, despite the headache.

It's not just a headache, though—it's more like a swirl of intense strings of thought pounding at his skull: strong events like traumatic childhood memories and the shock from the portal, words that stuck over time and come back to haunt him, the faces people that mess with his head… it's not all bad stuff; both Sam and Vlad know perfectly well how to mess with his head (but for entirely different reasons) and that alone makes them protagonists in his migraine. But it's all strong stuff, giving him plenty to think about but no space to think about anything.

He has tried aspirins—the headache has been an on/off sort of thing ever since coronation night—but Clockwork said it was just his system adjusting to the flow of energy. Time spent inactive makes it hurt worse, so he needs to keep focus elsewhere, needs to move, needs distraction. Maybe that's why he's so strongly inclined to leave his desk and write Dani a quick note, even though he hasn't thought this through and it probably won't end well.

He's so shaken by the suddenness of both his idea and the pain that it takes him five full minutes of flight to realize that he doesn't even know where Desiree is.

He's carrying her form, though, and he remembers a section for personal info. He stops to read and notices that, though she didn't specify a specific place to live, she mentioned staying at Dora's castle often, so that's his first guess. It's close by so it's not a huge detour, anyway, and the movement and focus keep the migraine at bay. The best part of it all is that he spots Desiree out in the courtyard, alone and in plain sight.

He can't believe his good luck, but doesn't question it too much, knowing he'll need it for this to work out as planned (can he call it a plan when he's really just winging it and hoping for the best?). He touches down on the courtyard and Desiree hasn't noticed him. She doesn't turn the first time he calls her name, but she does tense.

"Did I miss a question on your survey?"

That's not really the greeting he expected. "No…"

She turns, looks mad. "Then _why _are you here?"

He's trying to think of a way to bring this up but, even subdued, the headache places a barrier between coherent thought and his voice box. He suddenly realizes he probably should've done this sometime _sans_ migraine.

He ends up blurting: "You can't grant yourself wishes."

That was a bad move. He figures it's a sensitive topic for her, seeing how quickly her annoyed look turns into a sneer: "I assure you that doesn't subtract from my power—care for a demonstration?"

He holds his hands up. "Nope, nope. It's just… you, uh…" he flips to the back page of her form. "You wrote that your obsession is 'desire, particularly wanting things you cannot have'. It's because you got everything you ever wanted and then it was ripped away from you, right?"

Her hands start to glow and she probably wants to blast him straight back to his island—and he supposes that with good reason—but her shoulders slump. She sighs. "I only ever received empty promises and false hopes. I died shortly afterwards"—she gestures to the form—"I said so, I got sick."

He nods. He read that part, but it's not quite that detailed. Most of what actually-dead-people ghosts write in their backstory section isn't detailed—they either don't remember or don't want to.

He gets that. He really doesn't mean to pry, but this is crucial to his plan, so he gathers his wits and says: "But what exactly did you want?"

It's a good thing she's lost in her thoughts, because she actually answers, absentmindedly: "My own kingdom. I saw things when I was younger, met some people. I was angry and I resented those that ruled over my family. I wanted to change things." She gets a faraway look in her eyes; maybe she's imagining that utopia of hers. Then: "Of course, thinkingis very fine and noble, but action is what gets things done. The interesting part is that I almost _did_ get things done, until one jealous woman ruined everything and I… died."

He nods. That confirms it.

Now for his idea. He's careful with his wording, pushes the thoughts through his head until he's sure of what he's doing, because if this whole experience has taught him anything, it's that details loopholes are real and scary things. "In exchange for a debt of one favor of my choosing, I wish for that kingdom you wanted, which you will rule justly and with respect for my jurisdiction and the rules of the Ghost Zone."

Desiree snaps out of her reverie, looking a little flustered. "Thank-you, child, but that's not how this works…" she's cut off because her hands are glowing. "What?"

There's a bright flash, a gasp, the sound of thousands of bricks falling atop one another. Desiree grows a few inches taller, her hair a little longer, her skin a little brighter. No longer blinded, he jumps into flight, curious as to what Desiree's dreamland looks like.

It's certainly an upgrade from his meager little island, which makes him seriously reconsider Anne's offer of remodeling it for him.

Just like his island, Desiree's kingdom is a floating stretch of land, but that's where the similarities end. This island isn't very large, he thinks it might be half the size of Amity. It floats far from here, so much that the marble palace standing at the edge of the island looks tiny even though it's probably huge. There is a variety of colorful buildings surrounding it, a curious array of sizes and shapes arranged among twisting streets.

It looks like something pulled out of a fantasy film, and Desiree looks like she's about to cry. "But… how? I told you—these wishes are never meant to work in my favor…"

He nods. However much he dislikes them, he knows loopholes can be fantastic. "But this isn't just for your benefit—you do owe me a favor, though I don't really know what I'll use it for, so just keep that in mind for later. And there's one other thing, but I doubt you'll mind."

Desiree turns to him, arms crossed, a wary look on her face. "Go on."

"Reading over these," he gestures to her form, "my friends and I have found a bunch of…" he very well can't say _nobodies _though that is the word that comes to mind. "Ghosts that have no name, no history, nothing to do and nowhere to go. It's complicated. I want them to live in your kingdom."

She raises an eyebrow, nods slowly. "And why would I agree?"

"Well, you need some sort of population, don't you? Anyway, you can consider it the favor I asked for in my wish, but I prefer you don't. I don't want you to think I'm forcing you to receive these people."

She shrugs, and he's not sure if that means she still owes him that favor or not. She looks at her island, and by the look on her face, something clicks in her head. She stretches out a hand to him: "You have yourself a deal."

He shakes it. He's about to leave, but she surprises him: "Thank-you."

He finds it a little too weird to hear a kind-of enemy sound so sincere. "You're welcome," he says. What else is there to say?

His head is still throbbing, but not as much as earlier. He might actually get some thinking done now. "I should go," he says. "Good luck with that. My guess is the place will be full soon enough."

Desiree nods, still staring dumbstruck at the island. There's a content feeling in his gut, knowing he just did the right thing—and on a whim, without having consulted Jazz or Sam. Maybe he's not so bad at this after all.

* * *

**A/N:**

How'd that go? I really, really liked writing the scene in Tucker's POV. I know this story rarely drifts from Danny's POV, but when it does, I have fun. I have at least one more of these scheduled in the outline (Sam's POV) so keep a lookout for that!

Thank-you very much for the fantastic reviews, thank-you for reading. I'm so happy to have wonderful readers like you guys (I don't think I'd be writing otherwise). Speaking of writing: I tweaked the outline a little and it looks like we're nearly halfway through the story! It stands to end at 14-16 chapters, unless I mess up at some point :P

I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter (the last scene was such a headache, I hope it was worth it). Ooh, and what do you think of Dora and Desiree being friends? I find the parallel in their stories (Dora oppressed by her brother and Desiree betrayed by a king) kind of interesting.

See you next week!

—Rose.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything Nickelodeon owns.

**Claimer: **This story is mine, though. I'm the one thinking it up and writing it down.

* * *

Chapter Eight  
_Stuck Flying_

_2014.16—Stuck_

_2013.2—Flying_

* * *

By the time school starts, he's getting better at balancing his hours as a ghost and his hours as a human. He still has bags under his eyes and he still spends most of his time yawning, but he _can_ stand up straight and think clearly. Plus, the migraines aren't that painful, don't last that long, don't happen that often. It's been nearly a month of adjusting and he's finally feeling the results.

Life has also been kind enough to keep History and Anne at a distance. He gets along with them just fine, but having them peep into his life 24/7 never appealed to him. Dani, the miracle she is, has become Anne's best friend. Now Anne learns everything she wants about him through Dani, and History only pays him brief and sporadic visits to ask questions.

He's not sure what exactly Dani and Anne talk about, though, given that there's not much history being made. In the past weeks he has done little else but work with endless stacks of paper. Sam's idea for creating social organization inside the Ghost Zone has been a pain, but it has paid off. He hasn't been able to pass any laws to limit access to Amity yet, but keeping the ghosts interested in their own world has, curiously enough, kept them away from his.

Desiree kept her word and has received a little over two-hundred ghosts into her island. Some chose not to go, and left to continue wandering on their own. Some ghosts have taken up chunks of land for themselves. He and his friends aren't done sorting through the registry yet, but they're getting there. Though difficult at first, finding places for the ghosts to live hasn't really been the hardest part of the task—that title goes to finding something for them to do.

"_Everything _they do is related to Amity," he once told Sam. "Or our world in general. How are we supposed to find a freaking Toilet Ghost something to do in a place that doesn't have toilets?"

As far as he knows, the only toilets in the entire Ghost Zone are the ones at his house; a clear exemplification of the problem: most of the ghosts' existences revolve around his world. Is he doing the right thing, then, trying to push them away from it?

"Chemically speaking," Jazz argued when the topic came up, "they just don't belong here. Ectoplasm isn't part of our world's elements. That's why our worlds are parallel, Danny. They're not meant to cross."

He knows she didn't mean it like that, of course, but at the time he couldn't help but wonder what the heck that meant for him. Jazz once described him as "half our chemicals and half theirs." Where does he fit, then?

Sam disagreed with Jazz's opinion: "I think it's kind of like saying Americans should only live in America and Europeans should only live in Europe. Theoretically, it sounds logical. But in context, it's ridiculous."

Thoroughly confused, he and Tucker cast the final vote and agreed to give it a rest, focus on getting through the registry and finding the ghosts places to stay. Danny figured he'd come up with something eventually.

He kind of does in History class, one afternoon when he's not paying that much attention (he still _is_ sleepy) while his teacher drones on and on about nationalism's impact on World War 1. His interest catches, however, when she mentions: "Nationalism gave the people an identity beyond their gender, status or profession, granting them something in common…"

He thinks about that, staring at the back of Sam's head. "Hey, Sam," he whispers, inching toward her ear. He makes sure the teacher's focus is elsewhere. "What do ghosts calls themselves?"

"What?"

He looks for a way to explain this, settles for an example: "We're people, or Americans, or high school seniors. Stuff like that. What do they call themselves?"

"Just ghosts, I guess. Skulker calls himself a hunter. Is that what you mean?"

"Err, not exactly. See, I'm thinking: when you tell a person about a ghost, they think of some transparent white blob from a cheesy movie, right?"

"Maybe not someone from Amity, but sure."

The teacher turns his way, suspicious. He twists a strand of Sam's hair between two fingers and feigns boredom (it's not very difficult). When she turns away, he whispers a little lower: "But to the Ghost Zone's inhabitants, a ghost is something else, right?"

"Duh."

"Well… what? To them, is a ghost someone who belongs in the Ghost Zone? Is it kind of like when you say you're American because you were born here?"

Sam is quiet for a moment but then nods, slowly. He can see a corner of her mouth rise. "This sounds promising. You're trying to introduce nationalism?"

"If we give them a reason to _want _to be in the Ghost Zone…"

"They won't want to haunt Amity anymore! Danny, that's brilliant!"

He doesn't hear that often. He's grateful she can't see him blush. "Exactly! Just like the relocated ghosts have stayed at Desiree's island."

"So we just have to find a way to give them a sense of identity," Sam surmises. "And I know just the girl for the job."

* * *

Jazz tackles the project with typical enthusiasm, even with her college workload, and of course Tucker tags along because—well, _Jazz_. Sure, Jazz told her, that book she and Tucker gave her weeks ago was a good start, but hardly enough. This project is exactly what she's been looking for.

Sam knows Danny feels a little troubled because he dumped a new workload on his sister, but—seriously—how can he not see how excited she is? Plus, giving her something to work on with Tucker has improved the latter's mood immensely. Now he has the perfect excuse to start up video chat with her every afternoon.

It's also convenient for her, in a subtle and indirect way Danny would never think to trace back to her. Tucker spends the afternoons assisting Jazz (and supposedly doing homework) while she continues leaving for the Ghost Zone every day at six pm. Except she doesn't drive the Speeder—why should she, knowing Danny can just carry her back and forth?

Flying is the best. She doesn't get this sort of opportunity often, so she seizes it when she can. She loves feeling weightless, air whipping through her hair, tickling her arms and neck. It's a wonderful, liberating feeling. She can let go of herself for a few minutes, Danny's going to take care of her, pull her through the air to wherever the heck they're going. For a little while, she doesn't worry about carrying her own weight in the world, and instead just lets go.

Her other big reason for flying is a little less innocent: though holding onto his arm is enough to get her flying at his side, he gets protective in the Ghost Zone, where all sorts of random floating debris can strike her at any moment, especially given the speeds he can reach. So, during the small stretch between his clone-house and the portal, he carries her close to his chest, tight in his arms.

_Of course_ she'd rather leave the Speeder home.

This is the case one night, the third in a string of Tucker-less evenings sorting through registry forms with Dani. She's enjoying the ride, looking around and she smiles wide when they fly past Desiree's island. He did well then, as he did with the nationalism idea. He's starting to think as a leader, and she's proud of him. He isn't quite so afraid of a challenge anymore, and she takes a little pride in knowing that she had something to do with that.

Thinking of this, she barely notices when they cross the portal, and suddenly she's being lowered to her feet. After closing the portal behind them, a new habit, he offers an arm. "One to the Manson Residence, ma'am."

She snickers, takes the offered arm. "Dork."

He grins and takes off, phasing them through the house until they're faced with the night sky. From her spot above the roof, she can see Amity stretch out beneath her, the stars all around. It's… nice.

But she has a better idea. "Can we walk?"

"Walk?"

"Don't get me wrong, this is fun," she says. It is, even if she's only holding onto his arm this time. "But it's nice out tonight, the heat's bearable. And, okay, I'm trying to grate on my parents' nerves a little."

He touches down in a small alley and switches to human form. "What's going on with your parents?"

She shrugs, starts walking. "They're getting nosy. They suddenly realized they've got less than a year to convince me to attend the college of their dreams, and now they're being extra careful." She wrinkles her nose. "Mom signed me up for piano lessons again."

"You haven't touched a piano since seventh grade."

"Have too!" she pauses as she turns a corner. "I like the instrument just fine, I just don't get along with the tutor lady. Anyway, I let Mom get away with it—I mean, it _does _look good on an application—but now she's got all these ideas and she keeps saying how she knew I'd come to my senses… it's getting out of hand. So I've got to set the record straight."

"So you're breaking curfew?"

"Fifteen minutes should get the point across." Then she remembers: "You _can _stick around, right? The balance thing?"

He shrugs. "I don't think fifteen minutes will throw me off. I'm fine."

She nods, then looks at him carefully, sees how he still has bags under his eyes. "Are you?"

He stops. "Hey, I thought we'd left the pep talks behind."

"Does that mean you need one?"

"I'm fine."

"Saying _I'm fine _clearly means you're not." She moves to stand in front of him, blocking the way. She crosses her arms, plants her feet firmly apart to show she won't budge. "Go on."

He smiles. "You expect that to work? I mean, I could just do this…" He wraps his fingers tightly around her arms, picks her up and moves her aside. The only indication of effort is the tightening of his grip.

"Ha-ha," she mumbles. She walks back to where she stood before, assumes her earlier stance. "I can keep this up."

"Can you?"

The glint in his eye tells her that she probably can't.

He runs straight into her, like a bull taking charge, and the image is so funny that she doesn't fight back when he picks her up, lugs her over one shoulder like a potato sack. She laughs against his back, thumps his spine with two harmless fists that fly back and forth as he runs. "Put me down!" she laughs. "Put me down this instant, Daniel Fenton! This is demeaning!"

She's not scared. She can trust him to carry her a hundred feet in the air; this is nothing. She's wheezing from laughter and she realizes how _good _it feels, how long it's been since she laughed properly, carelessly. He's laughing too; how long has it been for him?

"For the last time, damn it, put—me—down!" She pounds on his back for emphasis. "My mother says I'm a lady and that I ought to be treated like one!"

That makes him stop. In one swift move, he slides her down to the ground, and it's quick enough to make her a little dizzy. She rests her hands on his shoulders.

"A lady?" he teases, hands on his knees as he catches his breath. "Your mother says you're a lady—that's the best you've got?"

It isn't, but it sounded funny in her head. She tries for balance, lets go of him and crosses her arms. "You're saying I'm not a lady?"

His grin turns into a smile; his gaze is still playful, but there's a tinge of something else in the way he looks at her when he says, voice lowered: "No, you are."

He holds that look long enough to make her tilt her head, wondering what the heck is going on in his. Then the grin returns and he slings an arm across her shoulder, saying: "In your own way, of course."

"Of course," she repeats. She's light with laughter and can't even remember why it feels so foreign; for a little moment, she's just a girl breaking curfew, teasing her best friend. She has no qualms in returning his lazy smile, turning to face him with her hands on his shoulders, meeting his gaze and allowing herself to wonder if there's some substance to all those ridiculous moonlight clichés after all…

She thinks he might kiss her. It's not an ordinary sort of thing, but there have been enough close calls in the past few years to make it plausible. She knows her feelings aren't exactly unrequited (she's had plenty of time to figure it out for herself by now) but she also knows that their roles are reversed in this situation: she, not him, is the one up for taking a risk.

She doesn't believe in letting fear hold you back. Precaution is important, yes, it saves lives (or friendships). But she has taken precautions and she has thought this one over and she just… knows.

He looks entranced, probably mirroring her own look: mirth in his eyes and lips' corners turned upward. But it doesn't last because he notices how the distance between them is getting smaller, recognizes this pattern and knows what's bound to follow.

He takes a step back.

It's a subtle form of rejection, and experience has taught her to expect it. She doesn't, however, expect it to sting so badly, so suddenly, making her blurt a very quiet and ridiculously timid: "Why?"

_Why_, indeed—why did she say that?

She once made a silent promise to keep this to herself, to avoid adding to his worries with her own issues. She wants to take it back but can't, especially given the look on his face—he heard her. He heard the question and heard the tone with which she asked it. It's embarrassing enough to make her look away.

He takes a while to answer, quietly: "You deserve better."

She begs to differ. "I get to decide that, thank you."

"Consider it advice."

"I _have_ considered it. You give bad advice."

He keeps quiet.

"If that's your only reason…" she tries.

"You know it's not."

She does know. They've never had this conversation before, which is probably why her hands are betraying her with a constant tremble, but there have been similar ones. _I don't want you and Tucker to get too involved. You guys should keep some distance. Go home, I'll be fine. _And those are just the regulars. Older, outdated ones followed the same theme: _Jazz doesn't need to get caught up in this, too. My parents won't take it well. _

He has reasons to keep three feet between himself and the rest of the world, but she wants to scream that she _isn't _the rest of the world, she's his best friend. She wants to do the immature thing and call it all bullshit, say he's just being a coward, but she can't. These are real fears of his: someone's going to get hurt, someone's life is going to rot away hunting ghosts and emptying thermoses, someone will regret it, someone will turn bitter, _something will go wrong_.

He starts walking again, as if dismissing the conversation, and she notices they're near the park. Her house is just a block away, a minute's worth of walking, but she doesn't want to leave this conversation hanging. _Maybe you should_, her conscience nags.

She starts to walk around the park, the opposite direction from her house, and though he gives her a look, he doesn't question it and follows. He doesn't say anything else and keeps his gaze on the ground, hands in his pockets.

After a minute, she gives up on trying to find the right words and instead blurts: "Please don't shut me out."

His head tilts upwards, slightly. "I'm not."

"I think you are."

"Stop it!" he snaps. He stops in his tracks, looks at her with wide eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I just… I… headache."

A little shaken, she nods.

"I'm sorry," he repeats.

"It's okay." She doesn't want to force him to speak, but headaches usually mean he's hearing and seeing stuff in his head, and that's never a good thing to bottle up. Besides, there's something in his stride, in the way his arms look unnaturally tense while they swing at his sides while he walks… "Something else is bothering you."

"It's noth—"

She _hates _it when he brushes things off, and it shows on her face. "You _are_ shutting me out. Fine. If you don't want to talk, fine. Don't talk."

Maybe this isn't such a good idea. Maybe it's not her place to push and prod—although, if she doesn't, who will?

She ponders this for a moment and concludes that it's best to leave this for some other time. Her original motive behind this conversation is long since gone, and if he's intent on keeping to himself… She turns around and starts to head toward her house.

Danny looks confused for a moment, starts walking with her until he notices her stepping onto the street. "Wait." He pulls on her arm, gently enough. "I'll talk."

She sighs. "I'm not going to force you—"

"It's not that," he assures her, pulling her back onto the park's path. "I just don't think you really need to hear it, that's all. I'm okay."

She thinks his earlier outburst proves otherwise, but keeps that to herself. "I want to hear it."

"Okay, fine." He pauses, looking for a way to start off. "I'm, um, stressed. I get these migraines and I get angry all the time. I… I haven't told my parents about Vlad. Dani has been living under the impression that we don't want her around or something."

_What?_ She wants to ask more about that, but he keeps talking.

"Eight searches and two raids have only captured five of Vlad's guys, and Walker won't let me forget it. Jazz is working on a side project she shouldn't _have _to be working on, now that she's back at school."

He's not talking—he's ranting, going on and on and clearly unable to stop. She wishes she'd asked about this sooner… no wonder he has a headache.

"School isn't being very nice to me, either. I don't know what to do about college. I know Tucker wants to go to MIT or something but he hasn't told me about it—three guesses why." That last part sounds bitter, but his tone changes drastically when he says: "And then there's… you."

_Me_, she thinks. It's not flattering to know she's one of those issues that bug him in the back of his mind. But it's reassuring, kind of, to know that he does think about her, that he's just a little confused. A reminder that it's not all in her head.

He runs a hand through his hair. "Most of this stuff doesn't really involve you—I've got to gather the guts to tell my parents about Vlad on my own, you know. I just didn't want to bother you with it because you've got your own issues to deal with, other responsibilities and stuff to think about. Besides, you've been busy with the Census Project, you've been a huge help. You don't have to do anything else."

She really hadn't considered that side of things and no matter how annoying it is that he keeps things from her… she's touched. He doesn't want to put a dent in her mood, so he keeps to himself. She _does _feel proud of herself for everything she has done so far, she _is _happy she has a chance to make a difference. It's all she has ever wanted to do, and this is her chance. But…

"I don't mind listening," she says. "I do mind, though, when you keep stuff to yourself."

"I know, but…"

There's always a _but_, and she doesn't want to hear the list again. It probably involves something along the lines of _you shouldn't _something or other. "Look, let's analyze, okay? See if we can ease the load a bit. Dani, for example: you're one conversation away from fixing that issue, so just—"

He cuts her off: "Don't."

She shuts up, but only because she's surprised. Then: "Sorry?"

"Don't," he repeats. "Don't start, okay? I know you like to think there's a quick and painless solution to everything, but sometimes there isn't, and sometimes I don't want to share my problems with you guys because you take it all so _personal_. And you're going to go on and on about why don't you try this, remember it's not such a big deal, just relax. I know you're trying to help, but right now just… please don't."

She doesn't say anything, just looks at him, incredulous. _Where did that come from?_

The look on her face seems to be a decent substitute for a response, because he continues: "You have this… this impossible faith in the idea that everything is going to be okay. You think you can make anything happen, you just need some attitude, some effort. But it's not like that, okay? Sometimes it's not. Sometimes people like me get turned into half-ghosts and then get turned into half-ghost kings, and sometimes they get migraines and they have problems and those problems aren't so easily fixed. Sometimes I get tired of trying, of hoping and working for everything to turn out alright.

"But people like you, you never give up. Everything goes wrong and you just keep going. That's really cool of you, Sam, but I'm not you. I can't fix everything, I can't… I can't… take care of everyone."

"I never said you had to take care of everyone." She's stunned, unable to reply to everything else he just said, so she sticks with the part she knows. "Tucker, Jazz and I can take care of ourselves. Your parents, too. And everyone else. But just like you want to watch out for us, we watch out for you. You don't have to be alone, Danny."

"Yes, I know," he says, sounding irritated. "Maybe I should be. Maybe I _want _to be alone." She takes a step back, hurt, and he pauses, realizing what he just said. "I just feel responsible for you guys, okay? You're in this mess because of me."

"Didn't I just tell you we can take care of ourselves?"

"Didn't I just tell you that, yes, _I know that_? I don't want any of you stuck with me. Yes, you care, yes you choose this, _I get it_. But why should that help? You're still stuck. You still get Bs instead of As because you stay up late helping me, you still think about settling for community college when we all know you can do so much more. You guys are still stuck being nice to me, keeping me company, poor Danny can't do this on his own."

He's not talking anymore but it takes her a while to find words to fill the silence."Is that… Is all this how you've always felt?"

"I don't know," he says, hand against his head. His face is pinched in pain, and she has to remind herself to not take any of this too seriously, too personally, because he has a migraine. "Maybe."

It still hurts to hear him say it.

"We're not _stuck_," she starts.

"Oh, trust me, you _are_—"

She holds up a finger. "No, we're not. Now shut up. We choose this, not you. You don't _get_ to feel responsible for our choices. That's not how this works. We decide what the hell we want to do with our lives and if you're telling me that wanting community college or a freaking B in Chemistry isn't a respectable choice, you're being a jerk. _I_ get to pick. I pick you. Tucker and Jazz pick you."

"You shouldn't."

She has heard that phrase _so_ many times. _You should_—that one, too. She has heard it so many times and she is sick and tired of it.

"There is no fucking _should _here! Stop that! Reality equals _can _and _will_. I can get As in Chemistry if I want, but I don't, because maybe I have a bone to pick with my parents and maybe I'm more interested in the molecular composition of ectoplasm than that of a freaking potato. Maybe I want to be your best friend more than I want to be a wonderful daughter. You know what? Maybe you say my choices suck, maybe some people out there will agree with you, but I don't!

"And the same goes for Jazz and Tucker. Their lives, their choices, and they pick you. You want to know why? Will hearing it out loud get it through your thick skull? Jazz loves you, remember? And Tucker loves you. I"—she only falters for a second—"I love you. _That's_ why we choose to stick by you and let other, _less meaningful _things slip by. You can't have everything in this life."

He's looking at her but for once she can't tell what he's thinking. Or maybe she just doesn't want to know.

"You're my best friend," she reminds him. "Tucker is the crazy brother I never had, and you… before anything else, you're my best friend." Her throat is clogging up, even though there is so much she wants to say.

"Maybe you picked the wrong best friend."

_What?_

She stares at him, waiting for him to take it back. He _has _to take it back.

When he doesn't, intent on keeping quiet, she mumbles something like "I have to go home" and wonders if that'll make him snap out of it. Make him say wait, hold on a second, I didn't mean that.

She knows he didn't mean that.

But he doesn't say anything to reassure her, doesn't make any attempts to stop her as she turns on her heel and begins to walk home. When she finally gives in and turns back, just to look, he's gone.

* * *

The next day, Sam doesn't talk to him at school, though he doesn't attempt to approach her, either. He accompanied Walker's men on an improvised raid last night and he's exhausted. He doesn't have the energy to start another argument.

Tucker immediately notices that something's off but—thankfully—Sam cuts him some slack and fills him in. Now Tucker is caught in the middle of it, he doesn't know what to do, and Sam has chosen to do nothing. She won't meet his gaze, passes him a pencil in utter silence when he asks for it, doesn't walk home with them and opts for the shorter route straight to her house.

She doesn't show up that evening at the lab, doesn't pick up when he calls. Tucker later calls him to confirm that Sam isn't going, asks if he wants him to fill in for her.

He says no, it's okay, and spends the next six hours filing registry forms with Dani.

The next day is the same, as is the day after that, and the one after that. She isn't being rude, per se, just absent. She doesn't talk, doesn't look, doesn't ask. If he talks, she ignores him. If he tries to apologize, she looks away. The most he ever receives is a glare, stony and cold like he has never seen on her face before, the one time he dares to shake her shoulders.

After the first three days, Tucker starts coming with him into the Ghost Zone. He drives with him in the Speeder, though—he only ever carries Sam. Tucker usually leaves by ten, rather than midnight, and instead of helping with the filing, he keeps him updated on what he and Jazz have been working on.

Tucker also starts taking some of the paperwork back with him, to give to Sam—this project was_ her_ idea after all. She's not about to give it up because of an argument.

Six days of silence have given him plenty of time to think. Yesterday he stopped fighting the stream of sounds and images the crown forced through his head. The migraine was subdued but his mood dropped drastically. He only meant to test it, see what would happen if he gave in for a minute.

Today, it takes a greater effort to keep it under control, and the migraine has his heart racing and blood rushing between his ears. He's trying to distract himself, pay attention to Tucker because this is important, but can't. In his head, he's watching Tucker under Desiree's spell, turning into a monster that only wanted to share the spotlight.

"So you need a new definition of what exactly a ghost is," real Tucker says. "But..."

Dani is listening intently, at least. She has done well lately, taking charge when he cannot. She has been there every step of the way, watching and listening, and knows when enough is enough for him. He's grateful, honestly, but it bothers him. He doesn't want to drown her in this mess, too.

"…meaning you need a definition for regular ghosts, and dead-people ghosts, and halfas. So you need terms for each of these categories…"

When he's not hearing monster-Tucker in his head, he hears Sam. He has their argument memorized, that one song replaying over and over again in your head even though you didn't want it there in the first place. He's mad at her—who is she to tell him what to think?—and he's mad at himself—she _is_ his best friend and he should've known better.

She started it—she tried to kiss him. But he started it—he rejected her even though he didn't want to. She made it worse—sometimes he just doesn't _want _to talk. But then he snapped and then she snapped and everything blew up in his face.

"This won't help much if you don't get humans' approval and cooperation, though, so Jazz and I think we should look for people interested in…"

He's angry, going mad because she isn't talking to him. She doesn't smile, doesn't laugh, doesn't place a hand on his shoulder and say this can't last forever, hang on, you can do this, I believe in you…

"…in fact, the simple definition of _person _is 'human being regarded as an individual,' so we really just have to cut the _human_ part…"

She's messing with his head and she doesn't even have to lift a finger. When did he allow her so much power over him? Why does this bother him so much? He _wanted_ this! He _wanted _her to stay away so she wouldn't get hurt, so she could live life to the fullest, unhindered, _without_ him. He still wants that, damn it, but he wants her here too.

Before, the migraines usually meant replays of old battles, remembering some of his weaker moments, a desire for revenge bubbling up and threatening to burst. He got so angry all the time, recalled bullies and teachers and his parents threatening to rip him apart when they didn't know _he_ was "him." He relived every punch, every blast; heard every insult and taunt. He remembered times when he was under _that_ _Freak's _control and couldn't do anything to save himself, or others, or _her… _ he was bitter and tense and he couldn't help himself. He wanted to scream. He got positive ideas, too, strong things that left a mark, but they were few and scattered, drowning beneath the weight of all the negativity.

There was a voice in his head, anonymous, coaxing him to use all the power he's been granted, to become something greater and stronger. _Prove you're better than this. Show them. _The best way to manipulate him is through negative emotions, he knows that, and the voice learned quickly enough.

He'd been getting past it, though, getting stronger and in control. And then she… she…

A hand is waving in front of his head. Fingers snapping. He associates those with cracking knuckles, _hers_…

"Danny? Dude, you listening to me?"

He shakes his head, partially to snap out of it and partially to tell Tucker _no, I'm not._

"Hey," Dani says. She places a hand on his arm. "Easy there. You're shaking."

He is.

Tucker gives him a look. It's more pitying than empathetic, not at all what he expects, and it makes his anger rise. He only contains it because he's not up for another fight, and listens while Tucker says: "Anyway, you can look these over some other time. The point is the final changes are done, and Jazz is really happy with the way it turned out. Dani says she'll take them up to council for you tomorrow, okay? See what they think."

He snorts. Council never listens to anyone, but he's happy to know he won't have to deal with them for once. Convincing them of the Census Project was a feat on its own. But why Dani? She's not supposed to get too involved, damn it.

"Thanks," he mumbles. "Sorry."

He wishes he meant that apology a little more, but he really doesn't. He just wants them out of the way, wants them to leave him alone, he's so _angry_. Seeing them is a reminder that _she's _not here, _by choice_, 'cause no one's forcing her to stay away.

She makes her own choices.

"I'm going home," Tucker announces, cutting through the tension. "Big test tomorrow and such. Unless you need some help studying—did you study?"

"Yeah," he lies. He obviously didn't and probably won't. Even if he tries, nothing will sink in. "You get some sleep. Thanks, Tuck."

"Sure. See you, Dani."

He still looks him over for a few seconds before finally turning on his heel and walking out.

Dani looks like she wants to say something but doesn't know what to say. He sighs. "Get some rest," he tells her. "You've got a long conversation with Council coming up tomorrow."

She nods, gives him a brief smile. "She'll come around," she tries. "You're both so stubborn."

He purses his lips. He feels ridiculous—how does this look, to them? He's pining over a girl like a lovesick twelve-year-old. He's mad at her, yes, but respects her enough to give her space, and that leaves him moping and beating himself up over it.

"Go to sleep," he says.

Dani nods, swallows thickly. "Okay. Good night."

He sits back down and watches her phase through the roof, up to her room (it's definitely not Jazz's room anymore). Now it's just him, surrounded by the many stacks of paper he's sick of looking at.

Sam never listens to him. Ever. She's so much smarter than him, she always finds the flaws in his ideas. She always chips in, always points this out, reminds him of this other detail, before ever agreeing to anything he suggests. She has learned that the hard way enough times, and he never complains.

So why did she choose to listen when he asked her to leave him alone?

* * *

**A/N:**

So. That was interesting.

About the argument: I realized that I can't picture them yelling at each other, so I'm sorry if the scene didn't meet some expectations. Also, to clear it up: I'm not defending either of them. They're both at fault. This chapter is biased in Sam's favor because the argument scene was in her POV, and the aftermath scene was in Danny's guilt-ridden POV. Despite that, I'd like to think that both their stances came across fairly well. You tell me, though.

Two notes: (1) For story purposes, I made up the location of Sam's house. I have no idea where it actually is. (2) I will continue messing with Danny's head for at least one more chapter, so if anyone thinks I'm not getting it right, or if something in particular is bothering you, do tell!

I analyzed the heck out of Sam's character to try to get this chapter right, but I think that after rewrites and rewrites, I can't be too critical. So you get to tell me: hit or miss? Revisions are a real thing, so if anything here bugged you, do tell!

Generally speaking, there's a lot of discussion-worthy material here, so I'd love to know what you thought.

Speaking of thoughts, thank you very much for the reviews! Something to celebrate today: we've passed the 100-page mark! (That's 42K words, if anyone's interested.) And I officially have written more than I have left to write (about 7 chapters left).

So let's leave off on that happy note. Thank you for reading, see you next week!

—Rose.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything Nickelodeon owns.

**Claimer: **This story is mine, though. I'm the one thinking it up and writing it down.

* * *

Chapter Nine  
_Spectra_

_2014.10—Spectra_

* * *

Two weeks of silence from Sam have given him plenty of time to think long and hard, which was probably her original intention in ignoring him like this. Is he sorry? Yes. Is he still mad? Yes, but not for the same reasons.

What bugs him the most is how he can't get used to her absence, even though he never actually expected to. She has been a constant in his life for over a decade, of course he's not going to get used to a life routine that doesn't involve her overnight. Take this morning, for example: even two full weeks later, he still heads toward her locker after third period, only to remember his next class is on the other side of the building and this detour is totally unnecessary. Lunch period is the worst part of the day, when he has to take a full hour of watching her hide behind a book, occasionally sparing a few words for Tucker.

Tucker. The poor guy is caught in the middle of it and clearly wants nothing to do with the problem.

"I talked with her," he said early on. "Not _to _her, mind you. Just heard her side of things. I think you guys are better off on your own this time. Sorry. I've got my opinions but I won't say anything, and I'm not taking sides."

He figured that was the best deal he'd get. Shortly after that, he asked Tucker to start walking home with Sam, keep her company and the like. He has his own parents (kind of—they haven't talked much to him since they found out) and Cujo at home, but Sam is trapped in that big house. Her grandma might be good company, but she sleeps a lot.

So Tucker spends afternoons after school with Sam and then leaves for the Ghost Zone at six. It's like a custody battle, and although there's not supposed to be a winner, Danny certainly feels like a loser.

The migraines make the whole ordeal ten times worse. He hasn't given in again, not since that one experiment, but it seems that one time was all the encouragement needed. Normal aspirins don't take care of the pain, allowing it to increase to the point of making him nauseous. He barfed once, promptly passed out. Mom took him to the doctor, but of course, nothing seemed to be wrong with him. Probably stress, the doctor said. Happens to tons of high school seniors.

Although school is far from being his top concern, he conceded that stress probably is behind the migraines. Sam's mad at him, he's mad at her. Walker nags about the missing prisoners (only five left, we've got to find them, this incompetence is unacceptable) and his parents still look at him funny in the mornings, during breakfast, because he reaches the kitchen through the stairs to the lab rather than the ones to his room.

_They don't want you like this._

There's also the voice to consider. This voice is different from the one he used to hear with the migraines—that one was more metaphorical; this one is real, loud and clear, totally unwanted and entirely foreign. It rings familiar, though he can't quite place it between the headaches and the consequent poor focus.

He has been ignoring this voice for two days now, and hasn't told anyone about it. Sam is out of the question, Tucker doesn't need anything else to worry about, Jazz is going to take it way too seriously and will probably skip school for a week if need be. He doesn't want his parents to look at him funny any more than they already do, and Casper hasn't hired a new psychologist since the Spectra incident (and he has never trusted school shrinks, anyway).

But he thinks he has to tell someone about it. Even if he's not going insane (though hearing voices in your head is a pretty sure symptom of it), the paranoia is driving him nuts. What if this is a new form of overshadowing? What if the crown and ring hold leftovers of Pariah's consciousness, and are slowly taking over him?

These thoughts plague him while he walks down the hall toward Mr. Lancer's class. His headache has been getting progressively worse all morning, he's about to fall asleep in the middle of the hall (any progress he'd made with keeping balance in his sleep schedule is long gone) and apparently that's enough to render his reflexes useless. He bumps into someone and doesn't manage to catch anything—not himself, not the person's books, not the person—as they stumble to the floor.

"Sorry," he mutters, irritated. He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath, reminds himself to calm down. He balances his weight on one knee to help the other person up, but when he looks up his knee gives out beneath him.

"It's okay," Sam says, picking up her books quickly and methodically. "Wasn't looking, sorry."

She's gone before he gets another word out.

There are onlookers, he's still sitting on the floor, dumbstruck and making a huge fool of himself. _She didn't even look at you, _the voice says. _Didn't __**want**__ to._

He shakes his head as if trying to throttle the voice out one ear. It only worsens the headache, though, makes him feel like he's juggling his brain around his skull.

He rests a hand against the wall and pulls himself up, leaves his things scattered on the floor. He feels nauseous again. He's seeing Sam in his head, falling off that train from the time _that Freak _took control over him.

_You pushed her_, the voice in his head says. _Not physically, but you pushed her. What a great friend you are._

He wants to scream but his head is pounding too loudly for him to release little more than a whimper.

Then he hears another voice, stronger and more present—someone's talking to him. "…Fenton? Your girlfriend still not talking to you?"

Dash. In his head, Sam kisses him. His heart breaks along with a spell, and he's confused, so confused, what just happened, he can't remember a thing except he can, but those aren't his memories, except they are…

_She doesn't have very good taste, does she? _the voice says. The tone is smooth, mocking and condescending. _You, that Dash boy. My, she needs some help._

"Grew out of you, didn't she?" Dash chuckles. The crowd behind him is laughing, too. "Grew in general, actually. Have you taken a good look at her lately? Who would've thought Manson—"

_Crack_.

"Holy shit! What the fuck, Fenton?"

He doesn't feel any satisfaction in watching Dash clutch at his nose. He can't feel anything. He's just angry. He's so angry. "Don't talk about her. At all."

"Ooh, Fenton thinks he's all that," Dash grunts, clutching his face. Some of his friends step forward to back him up."What are you gonna do, eh?"

He knows _exactly_ what he's going to do, and Dash has must be seeing it in his glare, because his cocky façade fades for a moment as he takes a small step back.

Then Lancer steps out of the room at the end of the hall. "What is the meaning of this?! My class started three minutes ago and my—room—is—_empty_!" Lancer clears through the crowd, jostling onlookers aside until he reaches the scene.

Danny's books are on the floor. His fist is still curled in front of him and Dash's nose is bleeding, turning a disgusting shade of purple while blood drips down his chin.

_Somebody's in trouble_, the voice cackles.

"Someone explain this! Now!"

No one pipes up.

"Alright," Lancer seethes. "Fenton, principal's office. Baxter, infirmary. Someone clean up the blood. Off with the rest of you!"

They listen. Lancer's authority in this school is a funny thing, because it's actually real and valid, even if he's little more than a joke to the students. Danny has had classes with him throughout the entirety of high school, and even a few times in middle school. Even the most reckless kids at Casper hold a tiny shred of respect for him.

Like them, Danny has grown to like and respect his teacher over the years, but sometimes he wishes the guy wouldn't butt in.

* * *

The ride home with his mom is a very silent one, unless you count the voice in his head.

_How embarrassing for Sam_, it says. _A guy she can't stand defending her honor against another guy she can't stand. I bet it's all around the rumor mill, too, and they're all going straight to the source seeing as you're not there. Even __**she**__ can't hide from a mass of curious gossips, huh?_

He can't scream at it, can't shake his head repeatedly, can't do anything because his mom is in the driver's seat right next to him. So he sulks, arms crossed, trying to distract himself with the view of the same streets he has known his whole life. It doesn't work.

_And Mommy dearest must be so upset, too. Her little boy is growing up so fast—growing up to be so violent, and a liar, too! What else could he be hiding, I wonder?_

When Mom parks the van, she doesn't step out immediately, rests her hands on the wheel. "You want to tell me your side of the story?"

She could've asked that earlier, when all sorts of accusations were thrown his way. "He said some things."

The look on her face tells him that that's not going to cut it.

"About Sam," he adds.

He doesn't mention that it was really, incredibly stupid of him to take out all his pent up frustrations on that single punch—and of course it wasn't enough, he's reeling from it, needs to break something, scream his lungs out until his head explodes from the migraine so that it might stop _hurting_.

"Ah," Mom says. "You realize that's no excuse for violence, right? He'll need surgery."

Yes, the principal, the nurse, Lancer, and Dash's parents had made that quite clear. "What was I supposed to do?" he asks, although he knows the question is pathetic.

"Tell him to mind his own business? Honey, Sam couldn't care less what people think of her. Especially people like Dash Baxter."

"I'm not Sam."

"I'm aware." Mom sighs. "I don't want to ground you. I don't think I can, when you're not even at home half the time. And I never did like that kid's parents. So tell you what: you promise me you'll never do that again—"

"Done." He didn't enjoy punching Dash. He always thought he would, had awaited that moment forever, but now he feels especially rotten inside. He _could _have punched Dash before—has had plenty opportunities to do so—but never actually did. He'd taken pride in being the bigger person, keeping his fists to himself. _Had_. Past tense.

"And that you'll make an effort to patch things up with Sam—don't give me that look, _of course_ I know—patch things up with her so that she'll keep you out of trouble because, my God, that girl is the best thing that ever happened to you—"

He agrees with that last part, but... "You think I'm not making an effort?"

"I think you're giving her space, which is perfectly alright, but two weeks of space is more than enough. Now hush, I'm not finished. And you have to take out the trash for a month, no exceptions."

Taking out the trash is a very particular task at his house, because part of the trash is toxic wastes and all sorts of ectoplasmic residues. It's always an adventure to see if the bag's contents will blow or not before reaching the trash can.

"Fine."

Mom smiles. "Okay. We have a deal."

He smiles back, is about to step out of the van when he thinks of something. Says: "You think Sam keeps me out of trouble?"

She shrugs. "At least, I think she keeps trouble out of your permanent record. She's a smart girl, quite stealthy."

He can't believe his _mom _just said that.

"What?" she asks. "You think your parents never broke a few rules in high school?"

He'd found it plausible, given that Jazz is the perfect image of a perfect permanent record. "Uh…"

Mom laughs, really laughs. It's been a while since he last heard that. "Sweetie, the stories _I_ could tell _you_, for a change…"

* * *

His mood improves that afternoon, spent chatting with his Mom while helping out in the kitchen. Now that Jazz is off at college, household duties have been split a little differently. Dad cannot be trusted in the kitchen at all, and though Mom has been learning to keep lab hours _very _distant from cooking hours, he still keeps a close eye on anything that makes it to the stove or the microwave. So far so good—no sentient food in sight.

Jazz once assured him that he'd eventually become great friends with his parents, the way most teenagers do once they grow up and out of their silly adolescent antics. He'd never _disliked _his parents, not even the way Sam dislikes hers (which is pretty mild compared to some other cases he has heard of).

He thinks maybe this is what Jazz was talking about. It's the most normal he has felt around Mom in over a month, which sounds daunting when he looks back on it. They don't talk about ghosts, or ghost hunting, or the Ghost Zone… He feels relaxed for a change, the voice in his head is absent, the migraine is easing up.

He lets his guard down and doesn't even notice it, not until she returns to the subject of what happened today at school—just concerned, she says, wants to know if anything else provoked him, if anything else is bugging him.

"You look so tired all the time, honey, you're always so tense… I don't know how to help. I _want _to help."

She looks like she's about to cry, and he doesn't want that at all. He insists he's fine, and she insists she's worried. He first tries to blame it all on his argument with Sam ("I feel guilty, is all") but she doesn't look quite convinced.

He doesn't want her to dwell too much on this, doesn't want her to speculate and worry the way any mom does when her kid hides something. So he explains the concept of the migraines, because there has to be some sort of science behind it, and getting her into scientist mode is enough to distract her from the sentimentality.

They're talking about this when something particularly strange happens. His ghost sense goes off even though it's been inactive for at least a month, given that he's always surrounded by ghosts as of late. At least, that's the best theory Tucker came up with when he pointed it out.

"Danny?" Mom asks. "What is it?"

There isn't a single ghost in sight. Maybe his ghost sense is faulty, from so much time without use. Although it's a flimsy explanation, he wants to believe it because he doesn't want to talk about ghosts with his mom. Not now.

"Um, nothing," he says. "So. I'll, um, set the table?"

She looks at him funny, but she's his mom for a reason: she doesn't want to disturb this little peace they have going, doesn't want to step out of the eye of the hurricane. She lets the topic go.

"Sure. I'll go pull your father out of the lab, then."

* * *

He doesn't like doing homework in the Ghost Zone, though he's not totally sure why. He figures it's because he finds it strange, to pull one side of his life into the other—but that's a stupid argument, given that he pulls Sam and Tucker in and out of the Ghost Zone on a near-daily basis.

Well, he used to. Sam hasn't visited the Ghost Zone in two weeks. She'd probably like to see Desiree's island, what she has done through the Census Project. She'd be proud of herself, of him, get that happy glint in her eye that makes the color of her irises stand out. He has always liked her eyes—even as kids, they'd always captured his attention. Though she's a pretty good liar, the years have taught him to read her, so he knows that even when the rest of her body language is perfectly choreographed, her eyes will always give her away.

But he's not thinking about her eyes at all. He's thinking about a good opening statement for Lancer's essay on the uses of irony as a literary device.

Well, okay. He's not. He's looking at the framed picture on his nightstand, taken last year on his birthday. He's in the living room, Sam and Tucker at his sides, icing smeared on his face and stuck in his hair. Tucker is laughing, not even looking at the camera, but Sam is staring straight at it. She's grinning, pointing at him, _look at this dork_.

_You remember the last time she looked at you—really looked at you—with those pretty eyes?_

Damn. It's been hours since he last heard the voice—since the car ride with Mom.

_She was hurt, remember? __**You**__ hurt her._

"I know," he mumbles. He's probably crossing a line right now—hearing voices, talking to himself (to the voices). "It's not like I can forget."

The voice doesn't answer him outright. _And she'd been so happy earlier on, so happy to be with you, breaking curfew. Naughty girl. You've been a bad influence._

"Shut up!" He doesn't want to remember what happened that night. He feels stupid, incredibly stupid, every time he remembers it. And he remembers it always, a watermark on every thought that crosses his mind.

_She was only trying to help, you know. It's what she does—help. And you pushed her away, so selfish, trying to be heroic, what an idiot. You push everyone away, don't you? Don't be fooled, Mommy and Daddy are scared of you. You didn't say a peep about ghosts today, did you? They like you better like that. No ghosts in your life. But that's not you, is it?_

"Get out of my head!"

_But who are you, anyway? No teenager knows how to answer that one, let me tell you, and you're no exception. But, my, you've got it tough. Are you a ghost? Are you a kid? You sister said that ghosts don't belong here, your worlds aren't meant to cross—yet here you are, the epitome of an experiment gone wrong. You don't belong anywhere. You're a mistake._

"No, I'm not!"

_An abomination. You go against both worlds' laws of nature, you know—ghosts don't belong here and humans don't belong in the Zone. You might to pretend to be wholly one thing or the other, but you're not. You're always split down the middle, only half-there, not really a part of anything. You're all alone, kid._

"Who are you? Leave!"

A harsh cackle. _Ah-ah-ah. I'm not done yet._

A quick, bright flash blinds him, but he blinks and blinks and blinks to make sure he doesn't miss anything. A black swirling mass appears in front of him, expanding and rising to form a silhouette—a human one, actually—except, not quite…

"Your session isn't over just yet," Spectra taunts. "I'm afraid it's my professional duty to _stay_."

"You!" he snarls, morphing into ghost form. "I should've known."

"Honestly? Yes. I mean, gosh, now I know why you get those grades. And it's no small wonder you need that goth chick—her only redeeming feature is her brain, it would seem."

She's pressing his buttons, he knows that, but his anger still rises.

Spectra breathes in deeply. He suddenly feels nauseous, even though his headache is pretty mild. "So much angst," she purrs. "You were my favorite student, you know? Such a shame I had to leave. Maybe, once I'm done with you, I can exact some revenge on your sister, hmm? I'd like that."

He's trying to blast her through the wall, but can't muster enough energy for a single hit. She's… draining him. He was dead on his feet from exhaustion earlier, but he'd been feeling better all afternoon. Now, though…

He rests a hand on his desk, keeping himself upright.

"You are _such_ a bore sometimes, darling. Makes my job that much easier. Bertrand!"

A shadow slithers out from under his bed, materializing into that creepy little guy. "That was fast," Bertrand mutters. "I wanted to have a go at him."

"Get on with it," Spectra says. "If we deliver him quickly, we'll have time left over to reach the sister."

_Jazz! _his mind groans. He's so tired… "Where are you taking me?"

"You'll find out." With a snap of her fingers, his wrists and ankles are bound—not with rope, though he hasn't a clue what that slick green stuff is. "There's a bounty on your head, you know."

_Vlad_, is his first thought. He suddenly doesn't have enough energy to speak up at all.

Bertrand, a shadow again, slithers underneath his weak frame and begins to morph, carrying his weight up as he goes… enveloping him in a strange, dark place that's _so cold…_

When he's back in his room, his head nearly bumps with the ceiling. Looking down, he notices he's slumped on a dragon's back.

"This is ridiculous," Spectra says. "You could have picked a horse."

"Less likely he'll fall off like this," Bertrand mutters. "Let's go."

He feels so dizzy. So tired. Bright spots dancing around his head, Spectra fading in and out of his line of sight as his eyelids droop and his head bobs back and forth as he tries to stay conscious.

He's got to fight back… He can't even sit upright, he's falling head first onto the coarse scales lining the back of Bertrand's throat.

He's suddenly startled by a loud _whack_ of wood against wood, his father's voice crying "get away from our son!" while the movement of his mother's blue hazmat suit blurs before his eyes.

The feeling gets worse with the variety of sounds erupting around him, the bright flashes of ectoguns firing. Grunts, shouts, his own words drowned out in his mind: _Mom, Dad, get out of here, these guys are dangerous…_

He rolls off Betrand's back, despite the former's earlier assurances, and he's out like a light the moment his head hits the floor.

* * *

_Danny? Danny, wake up. It's almost six, sweetie, you've got to go._

"Huh?" He sits up fast, too fast, and starts seeing dark spots. He blinks. "What happened?"

"Nasty bump to the head. You fainted." She smiles, teasing, as if she knows that's a blow to his ego. But then it fades, very suddenly, because she's probably remembering—like him—the last time he fainted in front of her. "Your father and I captured those ghosts"—she holds up a thermos, hands it to him—"shortly afterward. We're both fine."

"Thanks." He looks down at the thermos. He's tempted to leave Spectra and Bertrand cramped in there for a very long time.

Mom nods. Her lips are pursed and her gaze is a little unfocused, the way she gets when she's looking for the right words. She settles for: "How do you feel?"

_Sore_ is the word that comes to mind. He probably has bruises all over from crashing on the floor. "Fine," he says. "Just a headache."

"I can get you an aspirin."

"Not that type of headache."

"Ah."

An awkward silence ensues. He looks around—his room is a mess. His desk is smashed to pieces, probably thanks to Bertrand's impromptu transformation. "Sorry about that," he murmurs.

"Don't worry about it."

More silence. Then Mom speaks up, a little rushed, the way he sometimes talks when he's trying really hard to get something out. "What did they do to you?"

"Hm? I'm fine, Mom."

"You weren't when we came in," she argues. "They almost took you who knows where, said there's a bounty on your head? Your _head_?! Who would… why would…?"

He hasn't told her about Vlad.

"When I said that some ghosts aren't bad guys, I didn't mean all of them," he says, carefully. Then he quickly switches topics, because he is _not _going to tell her about Vlad without Jazz present: "The ghost was Spectra, she's the one from the time when Jazz figured out my, um, secret. She was playing with my head, saying some things… she absorbs her victims' misery. I guess that included most of my energy, so I couldn't fight back. Sorry."

"Stop apologizing, it's not your fault."

It kind of is, actually. If he'd told someone about the voice earlier on, this could've been prevented. But he's not going to say that. He instead jiggles the thermos in his hand. "I guess I should go, deliver these to Walker's prison. He'll be overjoyed." He rolls his eyes. Then he tries to smile convincingly, finds that it isn't quite so hard. "Thanks for the help."

Mom brightens. "You're welcome, sweetie. Anytime."

He starts to stand up, but Mom stops him. "Careful. You have a swollen ankle—it's not broken, I checked. I think you should"—the pause is minuscule, but he still notices—"fly. You'll feel better in a day or two, so long as you don't apply much pressure to it." She reaches for a little green tube on his nightstand. "Take this, apply it later if needed; it's a numbing agent."

He nods, looks down. She's right—his left ankle is huge and purple, but he can't feel a thing when he tries to roll it. He wrinkles his nose and takes the little green tube. "Thanks. I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

Mom nods. "Take care of yourself."

She means to make it an offhand, typically _Mom _sort of comment, but he realizes that she really is shaken. She just saw an example of what he has lived through for the past three years—and he wasn't even fighting back, unable to prove that he _can, _in fact, take care of himself.

What a great first impression.

"Always," he responds. He kisses his mother's cheek and phases through his bed, the floor, the floor again, and lands in the lab—balanced on his right foot. Dad is down here, back turned to him, tinkering with a weapon.

When Dad looks up, Danny lifts the thermos for him to see. "Thanks for the help," he says. "Sorry I was a bit, um, out of commission back there."

Dad looks concerned, but he grins. "Those ghosts didn't stand a chance!" He pauses, looks him over. "How are you?"

He shrugs, gestures to his foot. "I'll be fine."

Dad nods. "Take care of yourself, then. See you in the morning." The tone is a little off, kind of down.

"Yeah, see you." He changes into ghost form and floats toward the portal. Looking back, he sees Dad watching him closely. Dad gives him a thumbs up and waves him off, turning back to his work.

Danny still hesitates a moment before turning around, wondering if he should stop to talk with Dad, too. But the clock on the wall says it's quarter past six, and he decides he's sleepy enough as is, without skimping on minutes. He slips into the portal and hopes he's making the right choice.

* * *

Walker is _very _pleased with his parents' work, but the same can't be said for Spectra and Bertrand. One of the few ghosts Danny and his friends _did _find an occupation for, a spunky little guy named Smelly, can sniff out the spots a criminal has recently visited.

_Recent_ being a very subjective term, of course. "Just the past century or two," Smelly explained when he first got the job. "Sorry, I'm good—but not _that_ good."

Good enough, Danny thinks, to figure out where Spectra and Bertrand have been meeting up with the rest of Vlad's comrades. While Walker and Smelly organize a raid, he calls Tucker and tells him to take the night off. Then he leaves Dani a note (she's probably out with Anne or dealing with Council). Lastly, he pays Spectra a visit in her brand new holding cell.

"I have a few questions."

She looks amused, though the scowl doesn't leave her face. "And you expect me to answer?"

"Yes," he says. "You're really lucky to have that cell to yourself, you know? There are all sorts of lunatics around here, some of which are downright unpleasant. I bet you wouldn't like spending some quality time with any of them."

She glares. "Get on with it, then."

Satisfied, he does just that. "First question. According to Smelly, you followed me around for a full week before you started messing with my head. Why didn't my ghost sense go off?"

Spectra rolls her eyes. "I'm disappointed your sister hasn't figured this one out. To a ghost, psychology is _everything_, kid. Our minds control our powers, first and foremost. You don't need a silly ghost sense to alert you when you're already on pins and needles—and, trust me, you've been on an adrenaline high for weeks on end. Not very healthy. Anyway, today's conversation with mommy dearest relaxed you just enough for your instincts to flare up, to protect you when you let your guard down."

He nods. "And that's why I only sensed you till today. Huh. Okay, next question. How did you get into my head? You've never done that before."

"It's my best asset. I _have _used it, just not on you. I was waiting for the right opportunity—and, look, there it went. All my powers revolve around psychology, kid. Of course I can get inside your head. Of course I can read your mind—you want to know what you're thinking now?" She smirks. "You're thinking that you're tired. You don't really want to go on a raid, do you? You don't really care about the Ghost Zone as a whole, and you feel guilty about that because it obviously makes you a terrible ruler. And without your friends around to encourage you and work on your projects _for _you, you feel even worse.

"You know why, kid? Because you're a pathetic excuse for a friend and a king. You don't know how to value what you have, and that makes you selfish. And _that _is why guys like Vlad Plasmius and gals like me don't—like—you."

He can only glare, to which she responds with a lopsided grin. "I'm guessing I hit a nerve."

His nails are trying to cut into the skin of his palms. "You don't know anything about me."

"Of course I don't," she shrugs. "It's not like I spent two whole days inside your head, right?"

"I've spent my entire life inside my head. If I'm not done understanding what goes on in there, what makes you think that you do?"

"I'm the psychologist."

"And I'm me."

"You don't say." She leans against the wall of her cell. "And who's that?"

She's trying to get him riled up. Trying to make him fight her, bust her out just to prove a point. Or maybe she just wants to further mess with his head for the fun of it.

He's not going to fall for a bully's taunts twice in a single day. He crosses his arms and tries to pretend he's half as nonchalant as she as he says: "For starters, I'm the guy on the other side of the bars."

Her gaze drops and her lips purse. He leaves.

* * *

His nonchalance is feigned, of course, and her words do leave an imprint. It's enough to distract him, even though he tries to focus on the fight as he leads the raid on a random island in a far corner of the Ghost Zone.

_You're selfish_, Spectra said. _You feel guilty. _

Maybe he is selfish, but not in the context she mentioned. He _does _value his friends and family. He always thanks them for their help—case in point, this afternoon with his parents—and he never actually asks them for their help. He never forces them to do anything they don't want to do.

But sometimes he _does _try to keep them from doing things they want to do. Like Sam.

It's not the same thing to him, but maybe it is to her. Is that the bottom line? Is that why she's so mad? He doesn't think so, there's more to it.

_You're a pathetic excuse for a friend and a king_.

Not true. Or is it? No, it's not. He's a good friend, most of the time. He messes up and he apologizes and things go back to normal. And it's not always _him _that messes up—sometimes Tucker goes too far with his anti-vegan attitudes, or Sam makes the wrong comment when teasing Tech-Geek Tucker. Sometimes they push too hard with the half-dead and half-alive comments. But they're friends, right? They're bigger than all those things, they can get past the little bumps.

_Pathetic excuse for a king._

That one bothers him. He's trying! He doesn't know how to do this, no amount of research on Scepter and Iris is going to turn him into a pro. But he's not alone—he's lost count of how many times Sam has told him so. So maybe he's not up to par, and maybe he wishes none of this ever happened. But he's dealing with it!

It's these thoughts—distractions—that get him injured. There's a slash to his cheek and what sounds (and feels) like a cracked rib. He stays in the air because of his ankle, but that doesn't keep him from being smashed into the ground. A load of rock and assorted debris fall atop him before he can turn intangible. His head hurts and his chest feels warm. A mix of ectoplasm and blood ooze out, and his ghost form starts to fade. He can't phase out of the rock pile he's buried under but he'll run out of oxygen soon if he doesn't.

A blast from his right blows the rocks out of the way, thankfully, but also hits his shoulder with a harsh sting. His legs have grown back and his ankle throbs while he climbs out.

The battle is over and he feels like an idiot in front of all the soldiers, clambering out of the rocks in human form with _red _dripping down his face, rather than green.

Walker confirms that all of his escapees are officially captives again. Danny is too injured to celebrate. Or care.

_You don't really care._

The ghosts have medical supplies, even for humans, but he turns down the offer. He doesn't want them to see him weak. In general, he doesn't like it when other people tend to his wounds—not school nurses, not doctors, definitely not ghosts. Besides his mom, there's only one other person he trusts with the task.

Even though he could ask his mom to do it, he doesn't want her to worry any more than she already did for today. Besides, he promised her to make an effort to patch things up with Sam, and swallowing his pride to ask for a couple bandages sounds like a decent effort to him.

He ignores the warning in the back of his head, a reminder that he'll throw off his half-and-half time balance if he returns to Amity now, and leaves Walker to deal with the prisoners however he likes while he flies back home.

* * *

**A/N:**

I have a confession to make: this chapter did not turn out at all how I'd planned it. I cut the last scene (yes, the unavoidable conversation with Sam _was _going to be part of this chapter). However, I wasn't even halfway done with that when the chapter surpassed 7K words, so I decided to stop here and add one more chapter to the outline. Besides that scene, I actually cut another two (one with Jazz and one with Clockwork). The former will definitely be in the next chapter, the latter I'm not sure yet. So don't worry, next chapter won't be a filler designed to host that one scene I had to cut—it will be important and it will move the plot forward.

Speaking of which: how'd I do? There was a lot of narration and not as much dialogue here. I know some readers tend to get bored with that, so I hope the narration was interesting enough to keep you reading. (It's important!) This chapter was centered on Danny's thoughts, first and foremost, so there.

As usual, I want to thank everyone that reviewed, favorited and alerted. I know favorites and alerts get overlooked a lot, but those are really important to me, too. They feel more personal than looking at the traffic stats, so I want to say thank you to the people that like this story enough to add it to a favorites or alerts list. We got past 100 alerts! That's 102 emails announcing this chapter!

To the reviewers—well, you guys know you're special.

Having said that, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! See you next week,

—Rose.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything Nickelodeon owns.

**Claimer: **This story is mine, though. I'm the one thinking it up and writing it down.

* * *

Chapter Ten  
_Evil_

_2013.24—Evil_

* * *

She's tossing and turning, trying to fall asleep, when the temperature drops quickly and a grunt to her left pulls her out of bed, ghost ray lipstick in one hand and ready to shoot.

Then she realizes it's him. She doesn't shoot, though it wouldn't have made much of a difference if she had. Her breath hitches as she takes him in. "What happened?"

He slumps against her wall, slides to the ground as he morphs back into his human form. "Caught the last of 'em," he mumbles.

A raid. Of course.

She slips out of bed and is about to turn the light on before she thinks it through. Her parents are just down the hall, and though she doesn't think they'll wake up _just _because she flicks the light on, she won't risk it. Dad sometimes takes improvised trips to the kitchen at midnight.

Instead, she settles for her bedside lamp. She can see his injuries just fine, but if she has to do any nitpicking or anything… invasive, she'll have to risk the lights.

She pulls the med kit out from under her bed and looks him over. The gash across his cheek stands out, dried blood coating half of his face while fresh blood drips down his chin. She winces. It's a deep cut, and it might scar.

She takes note of a few other gashes on his arms and listens to his breathing—it's shallow, a little noisy, and ragged. He's in pain. It's hard as is to stay mad at him, and now he's badly injured and breathing funny.

He knows she can't stay mad at him when he's injured. Is that why he's here?

She doesn't ask, and opts instead for a monotone: "Anything internal?" Inching closer, she notices the swollen ankle. "Your legs—is it just the ankle, or is anything else broken?"

"The ankle is just sprained or something. Mom said it's not broken."

She purses her lips. She's not one to contradict Mrs. Fenton, but… "When did she say that?"

He's quiet for a moment. "Five hours ago, maybe."

She sighs. "Well, I think it's broken now. Just stay still. Legs?"

"Just scraped. I can walk."

She'll test that later. "Again, anything internal?"

The tone of his voice, weak and forced, makes her rummage through the med kit for some painkillers. "Cracked rib, maybe two," he grunts. He accepts the two little pills and swallows them dry. "Nothing hurts that bad, so no internal bleeding. It hurts a lot less than last time."

Relieved, she nods and moves to check his pants—she doesn't find any blood stains, so that's good. She wants to clean the gash on his cheek first because it stands out the most, but instead she focuses on the ankle. She cringes. "You should go to a hospital."

"No."

"Danny, it's fractured."

"Not the first time. And it doesn't hurt _that _bad"—the look on his face doesn't support his statement at all—"so it can't be that much of a big deal. I just need a splint."

"What if it sets wrong? It'll take a long time to heal, and if doesn't heal right…"

"I trust you."

_I don't._ "You need to get an X-ray, just to make sure."

He squeezes his eyes shut, and she thinks he might be about to give in. Then he looks up, face pinched, and gestures to his foot.

From his toes to his calf, the skin and muscle are gone, leaving her to look at the bones. She bites her lip so hard to keep from screaming that it bleeds. "How…?"

"Questions later," he grunts. "Just look at it."

She does. She's thankful she's not squeamish, because this is downright creepy. She looks at his ankle closely, from any and every angle she can think of, trying hard not to miss anything. It's just a small fracture, a crack. Nothing is out of place. Maybe it just looks bad because he sprained it earlier.

"Okay," she says. "No hospital. But you get a splint for now, you'll tell your mom to find you a brace or a cast later, and you'll let me look at it every single day until it heals. You don't get to move it _at all_ for at least a month."

He nods, exhales loudly when his skin reappears. Again, she asks: "How did you…?"

He shrugs, promptly flinches. "No clue. Went invisible and hoped for the best."

She wants to laugh because that's his intention—to make this funny—but can't. "Stay still, I'll get the splint."

While she works on that, she licks her bleeding lip in concentration, though her mind wanders. He's quiet. He usually is when she's works on his injuries, per her request because she's no professional and she does need to concentrate. But this silence is different, and she knows exactly what's going through his head because it's the same thing she's thinking about.

She's mad at him, is pretty sure that he's mad at her. She's happy to know that, despite two weeks of immature silent treatment, he allows her to take care of him. But what is she supposed to do now? He _knows _she can't stay mad at him when he's injured, but this is different. She can't recall an argument quite as bad as this one. He usually gives in quickly, swallows his pride and apologizes, which in turn makes her feel bad and elicits an apology of her own. There. End of story.

But this time she resisted, avoided the apologies, the pleading, guilt-inducing puppy eyes. He's good at that, looking innocent and sorry. He usually is. But this time she wanted to make a statement, make sure he understood that she's not okay with him making decisions for her. This issue has gone on long enough, and she still stands by her choice.

But. Now he's here, bleeding and probably still as sorry as he was two days after their argument. And she's here, setting his ankle into a splint, slow and careful, feeling as guilty and stupid as she did when she first turned down an apology.

It makes sense that they're quiet.

When she's done with the splint, she sits beside him with some gauze, cleans the blood off his cheek. He's looking at her, gaze sharp while the rest of him is weak and weary, and it's as distracting as if he were ranting away. After all the dried blood is gone, she cleans the gash with alcohol. She has to lean in close to get a good look and keep her hand steady, and his face gets even closer every time he flinches from the sting.

He's not pulling away from her this time.

But she does, and the moment she's done cleaning the wound, she's relieved to scoot back a little while she places a long strip of gauze along his cheek. Then she moves to treat the cuts on his arms, and he takes that as a cue to speak up: "I'm sorry."

She swallows her own apology. "I know."

"Do you? I really didn't mean to insult you or anything, I swear. I don't think you're weak, or inferior, or in any way less capable of taking care of yourself than I am of taking care of you. And I don't think that you're not smart enough to make your own choices. That'd be me, actually."

"Danny—"

"Nope, hold on. This time you've got to listen to me, please."

_This time,_ as opposed to the past two weeks. "Alright."

He nods, takes a moment to gather his thoughts. "I'm sorry if I ever gave you that impression, because that's all it is—an impression. I only wanted what I thought was best for you—which was a pretty stupid move on my part, because most of the time I don't even know what's best for myself—and I went about it the wrong way. You know I don't want you guys _stuck_ in my life, but that doesn't mean I don't want you in my life, period. Took me some time to figure out the difference, I know. I'm really sorry.

"I said some incredibly stupid things—things I _swear _I didn't mean—and reacted badly. It's great that you let me tell you stuff and that you listen, but it wasn't fair of me to take out my temper on you. Also, I'd never told you that your… your optimism, I guess, sometimes gets on my nerves. That slipped out and I didn't mean it—seriously, I didn't. And I don't want you to change.

"The thing is, I don't always understand how you can keep going when everything goes bad. It's something I admire, and envy a little. You never lose hope. I'm sorry if I made it sound like a bad thing. It's not.

"I promise I'll never say anything like that again, and if I do I'll totally let you kick my butt." His hand travels up to his bandaged cheek as he adds: "As long as you promise to patch me up afterwards."

He pauses, long enough to make her think it's her turn to speak up, but he holds up a finger when she opens her mouth. He still takes another minute, lips pursed and gaze unfocused, the way he gets whenever he's looking for the right words. Finally, he says: "You and Tuck are the best friends I could've asked for, and it was incredibly stupid of me to make you feel as if you're any less than that. I'm sorry."

At first she's quiet, throat clogged and eyes stinging. How long has he been rehearsing that in his head? Or maybe he _is_ improvising—that sounds more like him, but…

She gives up on the bandage she's trying to wrap around his forearm, and instead wraps her arms around his shoulders. He grunts, and she loosens her hold on him, remembering the cracked ribs. "Apology accepted," she says. "If you accept mine."

She pulls away, figuring it's only fair that she look him in the eye while she says: "I pushed and prodded when I shouldn't have. You have every right to keep stuff to yourself, if that's what you want, even if I think it's a bad idea. And I took some things too personally. You had good intentions, trying to keep me safe, and I reacted badly because—from my standpoint—it sounded like you wanted to control me or something. You know that doesn't sit well with me. Yes, I think you have a very strange definition of "safe" and no, I don't agree with it. But we've been dealing with this issue for a long time and I should've known better. I _did_ know better, but I chose to get mad anyway. So I'm sorry, too."

It's a miserable excuse for an apology, especially given that she _has_, in fact, been thinking this through for the past two weeks. But looking at the gauze on his cheek, now stained with red, she can't concentrate. Word vomit is his problem, not hers, but it seems that their roles are reversed for this once. She knows there's plenty she should say but cannot recall one word of it.

He doesn't seem to care, though, as he stretches out a hand. "So we're both sorry. Friends?"

She shakes his hand, smiles. "Always." The moment stretches a little, fingers touching, eyes locked. Her senses are alert—he reeks of sweat and blood, she can still hear him breathing with some difficulty (though maybe this time around it has nothing to do with the pain). Her fingers feel warm where his are touching them. The light of her bedside lamp is dim, makes his eyes glint. She's tempted to inch closer, see if his pupils are dilated for a reason.

She's not tempted, however, to dive into another argument. So she clears her throat and lets go of his fingers to hold his wrist. "Stay still, I'm not done with your arms yet. How are those ribs?"

His gaze drops for a second. Then: "The painkillers are working. I think I just need some ice." He frowns. "Oh. Duh."

He points a finger to his chest, coating it in a thin layer of ice. Sam shies away from the cold radiating off him. She chides: "You're going to get a cold."

"I don't get colds."

"If you sneeze with a cracked rib, it'll hurt."

"_If_."

She rolls her eyes, dabs at his arm. "I'll get you a normal ice pack in a minute, no buts."

After a few minutes of cleaning up small gashes, he speaks up again: "So, to start off on the right foot, there's some stuff I need to tell you. Actually, I should tell Tucker too, but that might be easier if I just tell you first. Then you can help me explain things to him all concise and eloquent, just how you like it."

She can't believe he actually said _eloquent_. She laughs, and his face brightens. "I'm listening."

"I guess I should start with today. Well, no, two days ago. See, it started with this voice in my head…"

Her first reaction is to feel guilty. She should've been there for him, and instead only added to the problem. She gave Spectra something to taunt him with. He's probably not telling her all of it, watering down the worst of it because he likes to play hero. He _is_ a hero, but that doesn't mean she has to like it.

But for once she doesn't prod, only listens and lets him tell the story however he wants to. She does add in her two cents when they reach the issue of Dash—"You should apologize."

"I know," he says.

Oh. He does? "Good."

"Yeah."

The topic is awkward because the root of the issue lies in her. She added considerably to his pent up frustrations by giving him the immature silent treatment. He punched Dash because Dash said something nasty about her—though what, exactly, the rumor mill didn't specify. She doesn't pry.

They both know that doesn't mean his decisions are her fault, and that's the thing. It was his decision, a conscious one (no matter how spur-of-the-moment that punch was), and that bugs them both because didn't he once promise to never let Dash get to him? To keep his fists to himself?

"I'm not saying you did the right thing," she breaks the silence, "because you really didn't. But you can't beat yourself up about it forever. It happened, it's over. You'll have to deal with some consequences and you'll have to man up and apologize. You've learned from the experience and you already promised your mom you'll never do that again. And that's it."

He shrugs, doesn't look at all convinced. "You didn't see the look on his face. He was trying to cover it up, be brave or something, but he was looking at me like… I don't know, he was freaked out. In pain, obviously, and freaked out. I did that."

"Well, duh," she says, even though that's not the most tactful thing to say. "Nearly four years later you choose to put up a fight? Of course he freaked out. It's not about _you_, properly speaking. You just tore a hole into his _concept_ of you, and now he's reeling from it. Don't blow this out of proportion, Danny. You messed up, yeah, but it's not the end of the world."

"But _why _did I mess up? I lost control, Sam. And it's not just today, it's the past couple of days and the past couple of weeks. The migraines get better sometimes but then they get worse, and if at some point it becomes too much—what? Will I be overwhelmed by power? Am I going to turn into Pariah?"

She wants to cut in, but he's talking fast. Ranting again. How long has this been on his mind?

"And, sure, Spectra was definitely out to turn me insane, but who says she lied? I _am _a poor excuse for a king—why else would the crown and ring be fighting me? Clockwork tends to imply that they're sentient, and maybe he's right. Maybe they _know _I don't like any of this and maybe they really _are _trying to turn me into some sort of puppet. How long will I be able to put up a fight?

"I get all these thoughts, Sam, images in my head reminding me that my mistakes have a heavy price. How many times have you and Tucker and Jazz nearly died? How many bystanders have been hurt?

"And punching Dash—you're right, I messed up, and the worst part is that I did know what I was doing. I did. I _wanted _to punch his lights out, wanted to break so much more than his nose. I was angry at him, sure, but in general I was just so angry… Before this whole experience, I _never _got mad like that. My temper doesn't work that way, it doesn't just… latch on to the nearest victim like that.

"Look at me. I'm mad all the time, and nervous, I feel like someone is watching me from behind. I can't control what goes on in my head or how I react and… I'm scared. It's ridiculous because I wasn't this scared when I fought Pariah, damn it! And I won and now I'm scared, because what's going on inside my head, what am I doing, this isn't me. I'm scared because what if I'm turning into _him_, what if I'm turning… evil."

She's tempted to do the usual thing, toss most of what he just said to the side and focus on one particular detail. But this is different, so once he's done talking and is breathing hard (and wincing in pain because breathing like that with two cracked ribs isn't a very good idea), she goes over the key points of what he just said.

"This is bigger than Dash," she states. "Leave him out of it, we already closed that topic. Spectra... Spectra's in prison and can't bug you anymore. Starting right now, we're going out on a mission to prove her wrong, and then we'll rub it in her face, hmm? Because she _is _wrong. And you're wrong, too."

He's not looking at her. Usually, when she tries to make him feel better, she lets him say what he wants to say, look toward whatever direction he prefers, so long as it's helping him cope. This time, she tugs on his chin and forces him to look at her in the eye.

"You're not turning evil. Didn't you just say that you're scared? If you're scared of turning evil, Danny, it means you're the furthest from it. Evil is… it's the sort of thing you start to crave, something you coax into your life. It's an easy escape, a welcome reprieve. I bet that's the type of magical solution you're looking for, but you're fighting it anyway. So no, I don't think you're turning evil." She tries for humor, the way he sometimes does: "If you were, I assure you I'd kick your butt."

He doesn't laugh, but his gaze softens and he pries her fingers away from his chin. He doesn't let go of her hand, but beckons her to continue talking with a nod.

The feeling of his fingers toying with hers is distracting, though. What was she about to say? "Stop doubting yourself. I know you're not turning evil."

"I did once."

"And you prevented it." She hugs him. "We'll figure something out, okay? This… this mess isn't permanent. We'll make sure of it."

She lets go of him, suddenly very cold. "Ice pack," she remembers.

He laughs, then flinches. "Right. Ice pack."

* * *

"Tucker?"

A groggy voice on the other end of the line: "What—what time is it?"

"You're not up yet? School starts in twenty minutes!"

"So?"

She rolls her eyes. "Whatever. Look, Danny's injured, so he's not coming to school today. I'm thinking we should ditch."

"Huh? Wait, how do you—you guys made up?"

"Kind of hard not to when he has two cracked ribs and a fractured ankle."

"Ow." A hiss of sympathy. Then: "So you made up. Did you make _out_?"

"Tucker!" She blushes and is very thankful that he can't see it. "No, and that's not the point. Listen, I couldn't sleep last night so I got to thinking—"

"Whoa. So you did make out. _Way _too much info."

"_Tucker!_" He's just teasing, but she's still mortified. "Focus. I think we should ditch. Remember what we were talking about on Friday?"

A yawn. "No."

She sighs, is about to go back through the conversation's highlights to remind him, but then he cuts her off…

"Oh! _Oh_." He pauses. "Holy crap, Sam. You sure?"

"He gave us the green light about it weeks ago, remember? I think it's for the best. I can't keep treating his injuries in the dark—I'll crack _your _ribs if you comment on that—and we can't keep sneaking around at night. Things are different now." She looks down at the book on her desk, not nearly as useful to her as it is heavy, open at a chapter on Specter and Iris. "Really different."

"Yes, I remember that speech, I don't need to hear it twice. It's just… shouldn't we ask him? You know, fair warning?"

"If you want, sure. So you're okay with it?"

"Well…" he hesitates. "I guess, yeah. It's just… this could turn ugly. Especially for you—I have no clue how this is going to go on my end, but you…"

She thought of little else last night, and reached her conclusion. She doesn't want to start reevaluating everything now. "Don't worry about me. I'll figure something out."

A pause. "Would it be better if we tag along?"

It would, for her sake. But… "I think this is something I've got to do on my own. It'll be too overwhelming if you guys are here."

"Okay. You know what you're doing." Another pause. "So we're ditching school. And Lancer's test on literary devices."

"Yeah."

A sigh. "Thank _God_."

* * *

After Sam finished patching him up, she made him promise to take a shower before returning to the Ghost Zone. He had every intention to do just that, but the flaw in his plan was sheer exhaustion.

He fell asleep the moment he reached his bedroom.

Naturally, he's shocked when he wakes up to the sound of his ringtone, and is only further disoriented by the prompt interruption: "Time out."

He wants to bury his head in the pillow, ask for five more minutes like the little kid he wishes he still was. But then the haze around his eyes clears up and allows him to see Clockwork's silhouette right in front of him, in his room—oh, shit, _in his room_.

He sits up, catches a whiff of himself—dried blood and sweat. He feel sore and the general opposite of well-rested, despite this being his first night of sleep in weeks.

"Good morning," Clockwork says. He's not amused.

"Hi." He stands up, a little sheepish, and takes care to keep his ankle above the ground. A moment later, he changes into ghost form and settles for floating. The silence is tense, and he feels the start of a headache. "I messed up, huh?" He looks at his bed, still made and only a bit rumpled. "I just… crashed. Sorry. Didn't mean to."

"I know," Clockwork says. He extends the hand holding his staff toward him. "There's something I'd like to show you."

Danny hesitates for a moment before taking hold of the staff. He has done this before, but he never quite gets used to the empty feeling in his gut, like stepping into a vacuum, that comes with traveling through space and time with Clockwork.

When they land, it takes him a moment to recognize his surroundings: kindergarten.

_Kindergarten?_ He has really, really vague memories of this place. "Why are we here?"

"We're observing," Clockwork says. He points in the direction of Danny's younger self, running around the playground with Tucker and… Kwan?

Oh, right. He used to be friends with some of the A-listers as a kid.

Looking around, he spots Sam in a dress. Particularly… "Wait a minute. I remember this…"

And yes, there it goes. Sam is talking with Paulina about something or other (neither girl will ever admit it, but they too used to be friends), and suddenly Paulina is pushing her into a puddle of mud. He remembers Sam's dress because it was the last one she ever wore (her mother was none too pleased when it returned home caked in mud).

This is the part he remembers best, and it's a little strange to see it from a distance, as opposed to the scene going on in his head, from his viewpoint. Sam is trying to get up while she yells at Paulina, and she catches most of the kids' attention—including his and Tucker's.

He laughs. "This is kind of funny, looking back on it. Tucker and I were a little scared of Sam. Girly as she looked, she had this glare… she was born with it, I'm sure. But we still chose to help her over Paulina, 'cause getting pushed in the mud was the meanest thing ever back in kindergarten. That puddle right there stuck around year long."

Clockwork nods. "You helped her despite your fear?"

"Kind of, yeah. I think calling it _fear _is a bit much, though." Danny says, looking at the scene. Sam looks kind of shocked that Danny and Tucker are helping her—she even refuses their help for a moment. Now she's getting up, each of the boys holding one of her arms. Tucker is telling Paulina to apologize… "We were about six years old, you know? We thought she was kind of intimidating, but that image shattered when we saw her covered in mud like that. The important part is that we became friends that day."

Clockwork nods. "Exactly. Let's move on."

Danny looks away from the scene. "Move on? Where to?"

Clockwork offers his staff again, so Danny braces himself for the empty feeling in his gut and grabs hold of it.

It takes a few more memories for him to see the pattern. There's the time when he and Tucker broke Mrs. Foley's favorite vase—that confrontation was the stuff of nightmares when they were seven; the day Sam broke her arm and he had to run for help, scared out of his wits because he had _never _seen Sam cry before, all the way home because at age eight they had no cell phones… The pattern is him steeling his nerves and gathering the guts to do stuff he'd normally be afraid of doing.

Despite that being settled, though, he still doesn't see why this little trip down memory lane is important. He doesn't get a straight answer until they leave a memory of twelve-year-old him and, rather than arriving at another memory, they land in the Ghost Zone, in his house.

Waiting for him at his living room table, as always, are the crown and ring. He stops in the doorway, staring at them, unsure of what to do next.

Clockwork nods at his hesitation. "This is the point I'm trying to make," he says. "You fear them."

He doesn't bother denying it. "You're saying I shouldn't?"

"Yes."

_Easier said than done_, is his first thought. He tries: "I'm just being careful—"

"Caution and fear are two different things." Clockwork pauses, and his features soften enough to let Danny understand that this isn't meant to be a reprimand. "The crown and ring are not trying to take control over you, Danny. They demand that you control them, and you are not doing so out of fear."

"The headaches don't make the prospect sound very welcoming," he mutters.

"They don't mean to hurt you," Clockwork insists. "The migraines and images are partially reflections of your mood. Mostly, they are a warning of what you could become, if you continue refusing the power. Someday it might overwhelm you just as you fear, because you did not learn to control it on time."

That sounds like a warning, and he realizes this is more serious than he thought. But though he doesn't mean to be stubborn about this, he can't simply concede the point and pretend that's the end of the issue. "How do you even know all this stuff?"

Clockwork's expression turns grim. "I knew Scepter and Iris."

_Oh_. He looks at the crown and ring, resting on the coffee table. They don't look quite that menacing in this setting, with the lights switched on and the comforting aura of _home _around them. He can almost believe that Clockwork is right, that maybe this is all in his head, fear making things sound worse than they are… and then he remembers.

"Look," he sighs, "I did try. I stopped fighting once, about a week ago, just to see what would happen. I bet you saw it." Clockwork nods. "You don't know how that felt, though. It was… invasive, something cold touching and twisting my insides. It reminded me too much of the shock from the portal—how was I supposed to react? I freaked out. Sure, the headache stopped, but I started seeing stuff, I could hear so many voices... It hardly lasted a minute but that didn't make it any less scary. And you're telling me I should just… give in?"

"Yes."

Danny raises his eyebrows. _Really?_

"The things you saw and heard are the Ghost Zone," Clockwork explains. "Being a king means it is your responsibility; the crown and ring are your connection to it. This sudden awareness is what overwhelmed you, and your fear only made matters worse. You will learn to control this over time, so long as you don't allow it to control you first.

"Consider this: you compared the feeling to the shock from your parents' portal. After the accident, when you first gained your powers, you were afraid. You overcame that fear, didn't you? Was it not worth it?"

He's running out of arguments. "I don't think that's a fair comparison."

"Why not?"

_Just because?_ "It's just… it's… this is different. It just is. This is big, this affects more than just me, this is… different."

_Well, that was pathetic._

"You are a different person from who you were three years ago," Clockwork points out.

He wishes Sam were here to come up with an argument. He knows he can't win this one—he never wins against Clockwork—but he just can't agree.

Clockwork notices the impasse. He concludes: "Do not let fear deter you, and never allow it to hide who you are." He pauses, gestures to the crown and ring. "This is who you are now, and it is not a bad thing unless you choose to make it so."

It's not a question, not an open-ended statement. Just a fact. Just his entire existence, basically, reduced to one fact. He doesn't know what to think, or say, but he knows Clockwork is telling him something important here.

As he grips Clockwork's staff, he makes a mental note to talk with Sam and Tucker about this later on. He'll have time to think about this beforehand, because his injuries won't allow him to attend school today.

They're back in his room, in Amity Park. Clockwork says: "There is a phone call waiting for you. When you answer it, remember what I said about fear." He gestures to his bed. "Be more mindful of your schedule, too. I imagine you will not feel very well today."

By the time he nods, Clockwork is nowhere in sight, replaced by the blaring of his ringtone. He picks up and glances at the caller ID, suddenly concerned. It's Tucker.

* * *

"You're sure about this?" he asks. "She can get _in your head_. We don't know what else she can do."

"She's in prison, Danny. With _guards_. I'll be fine." Jazz pats him on the arm. "Anyway, I didn't drive down here for nothing, and I only have the weekend. So hurry up! Time is everything."

He ignores that last part and keeps driving at a normal speed. _Why _did he think telling Jazz about Spectra's attack was a good idea? "And you're sure you don't want me to come with you?"

Jazz gives him a look. "Danny, I hate to break it to you, but you're injured. And Sam will kill me if you undo all her handiwork for me. I'll be _fine_. I'm not unarmed, you know."

_You inherited Dad's aim_, he thinks. "Why do you want to talk to Spectra, anyway? Especially today? She _just _got locked up—she's in a terrible mood."

"That's what I'm hoping for."

It's official, his sister _did _inherit the nutjob gene. "That's what you're—" he turns to look at her. "Are you nuts?"

Jazz rolls her eyes. "Eyes on the road, little brother." She frowns, looks around the Speeder and out the window. "Well, eyes on the… err, you get the point."

He turns his gaze back to the metaphorical road, but doesn't let go of the topic. "I won't let you see Spectra if you don't tell me what you're trying to do. If this is just a crazy attempt to learn more about ghost psychology…"

"Oh, please. She'd never be willing to teach me anything." A pause. "Wait, would she?"

"_No_."

"Darn." Jazz sighs. "Look, I told you: I just want to study her. She's a very particular type of ghost and I want to know why."

That's about as vague as Jazz can get, which is weird because she usually jumps into the details the moment someone asks about her projects. If she's keeping this to herself, it's probably because he won't like it. That reasoning is enough incentive to make him slow the Speeder to buy him time. "Explain."

She hesitates for a moment, then gives in: "Her form is really unstable. She needs a constant source of negative energy to keep her normal appearance up. See, ghosts don't age with time, like humans do, because they aren't finite life forms like us. Instead, they weaken and strengthen themselves through energy—how powerful they are.

"For example. Once you're older, your human form will continue aging like any other person, but I think your ghost form will evolve into an adult and stay that way. Unless, you know, your powers are radically depleted or something.

"Anyway, Spectra's form needs lots of energy to keep in shape, and that energy is depleted really fast, as if counteracted by something else. I have this theory that her psyche works like a bully's—she feeds off others' misery to keep her own a bay. So if I find the source of _her _misery, and delete it, she should stabilize. In theory."

He's stuck on what she said about growth for a moment—the idea of morphing between adult and old man forms sounds a little creepy, jarring enough to make him pity Clockwork. That's going to be awkward.

Then he focuses on more pressing matters: "You want to _help_ Spectra. Help her. _Why?_"

"If I do, she might want to teach me something in exchange."

"You're not serious."

Jazz shakes her head. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices her frown. "No, not really. But I might learn from trying to help her, she might let something slip… Also, if we remove the need to pick on others to keep her form stable, she might stop attacking you. Maybe. It's a long shot, I wouldn't hold my breath. I'm not sure what exactly I'm looking for, but like I said, her form is really unstable. It's kind of fascinating."

"Jazz…" He'd rather she didn't try this, wants to say that he can defend himself against Spectra just fine, _without _her input… but then he realizes he's doing it again, the making decisions for others thing. Has he done this to everyone he knows, rather than just Sam?

"I'll be careful. I'll bite my tongue if I have to. We're almost there, anyway—and you did agree to this, remember? Otherwise we wouldn't be here at all."

"I thought you wanted to _look _at her, maybe ask a few questions while I stood behind you! I didn't think you wanted to take her on as a patient!"

Jazz keeps quiet for a moment, long enough to make him think he has won. Then: "Please?"

He _did _promise Sam he'd stop meddling… "Fine. But the moment something goes wrong, you leave and never return."

"Deal," Jazz says, way too enthusiastic. Did she not just hear him?

Apparently not. When he parks outside of Walker's prison, she's out the door in a flash of red hair, leaving him to phase out of the Speeder with a bad taste in his mouth.

* * *

**A/N:**

I know a lot of you, like Tucker, expected them to kiss and make up. Sorry! We're almost there, I promise :) On another note—can you guess what Sam and Tucker were talking about? (Has to do with Tucker's phone call in the Clockwork scene.) I think it's fairly obvious (that was my intention) but it'll be clarified a bit in the next chapter, just in case.

Things to celebrate today: This story has made it past 50K! Thank you, readers, for getting this story up to this point! (Without you, I probs would've stopped early on.) Plus, it seems we'll pass 100 reviews this week! Thank you! 100th reviewer gets to pick between an excerpt of the next chapter, or getting to ask one question, any question, about the story.

Also, happy (late) 4th of July to my American readers! You guys are the grand majority of my audience, so thank you for reading!

I'm really, really excited for next chapter. There's this scene… you guys will love it. I think. I hope :) As always, thank you very much for the wonderful feedback. And, in general, thank you for reading! See you next week,

—Rose.


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